Glowingly
by Colorblind City
Summary: "Should we live in the past, then?" She laughed, free, boundless. He was a little hypnotized "Sherlock...We were not made for boundaries" "Then what were we made for?" He already knew the answer. Sherlock/Irene. After over a year on hiatus, I finally bring you the Epilogue.
1. Delighted

OK, so it's my first multi-chapter fic, and its just soo short!! It's hardly 3 pages in word. It doesn't really make sense but somehow it seemed rather possible to me.

I am not really in the mood to write about feelings (I'd get insanely corny) but I swear I'll have more feeling… later, when don't I write when I should be sleeping.

Hope it's not to OOC, if it is, please tell cause I'm seriously considering rewriting it, if it's not please tell me If I should continue!

Any ideas for a different name are welcome!!

* * *

_Glowingly_

It had been over 2 years, he was walking back home only to have the world stop spinning and every living creature disappear when he spotted her.

He took her in with wide eyes as she walked confidently towards him. She was wearing an exquisite dark green kimono, her slightly longer curls were cascading over her delicate shoulders, the sides of her mouth were up in a huge radiant smile, but as she came closer he noticed the purple bags under her beautiful yet tired emerald eyes, she wasn't wearing any kind of make up and she seemed younger, naïve, he'd dare to say, she also looked thinner except for the protuberance she was trying to hide underneath the unusual gown…

"My Dear Sherlock!" she exclaimed happily when she was standing in front of him "It's such a delight to see you again" her smile didn't falter the slightest bit.

Still in shock he swallowed and focused on her face "Irene" he addressed as merrily as possible "I'm afraid the delight is thoroughly mine" he said quite sincerely. Her smile widened further and like a magnet he felt one side of his mouth being pulled upwards.

Her eyes shined at him with something he could not put his finger on, it was lighter than sadness and deeper than amusement, softer than teasing and just plain adorable.

"Would you like to have some tea with me?" he blurted out, he really just wanted to keep on examining her. Her smile relaxed and her eyes softened, he couldn't help stealing a glance at her hand in her belly.

"That would be very nice, Sherlock" he positioned his arm for her to take it. She looked at him worriedly, he smiled and nodded once, then she hesitantly grabbed his arm, without any permission his smile widened a little and she beamed back at him.

They walked in silence to 221B Baker Street. Once inside, Holmes asked Mrs. Hudson to bring their tea to his studio. When he opened the door for her to come in she sighed and started looking around, he noticed she wasn't touching anything, her hands rested happily on her stomach.

He was anxious; he suspected her kindness to be a façade and was expecting her to drop it once they were alone.

After a detailed look around she finished by noticing her photograph in the exact same place it used to be "You haven't changed at all, have you?" she laughed, looking up, she noticed his preoccupied stance and serious face, she sighed tiredly and looked down at her fingers tracing the patterns of the fabric on her stomach.

It occurred to Holmes that maybe she was expecting exactly the same he was expecting from her.

They stayed in awkward silence for a few minutes, then Mrs. Hudson came in with their tea. When she saw Irene she stared at Holmes in shock, he stared back questioningly, glancing briefly at Irene he understood and shook his head no, Mrs. Hudson looked unconvinced but left anyways.

Irene was sitting down serving their tea, "how much sugar?" she asked coolly.

"None" he said carefully as he walked back to the table.

"Honey?"

"No" he mumbled as he sat down in front of her.

"Here" she handed him his cup and sat back, raising her own cup to her lips. She stopped when she noticed Holmes staring at her, she couldn't believe he still thought she would poison him. So she held his eyes, daring him to sniff his tea. He proved to be one the smartest people in London when he confidently lifted his cup and, without unlocking their gazes, drank half his tea unflinchingly.

She stared at him in surprise, her mouth slightly open. He stared back intensely, after a while she smiled and went back to her tea.

"So tell me, what have you been up to since we last met?" she asked conversationally "What was it? A year ago?"

"Two years, actually" he replied, a little offended.

"Oh" she seemed to sense this "I feel like it was just yesterday" she lied smilingly. That crushed his mood. _Of course she wouldn't stop lying!_ He thought scornfully.

He was looking at the table when the corner of his mouth twisted for a split second, almost unnoticeably, but Irene knew every quick little contortion of his face too well.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come here" she murmured as she stood.

"What! Why?" he protested, his head snapping up to look at her. "What did you want from me?" he flinched a little, he didn't intend to be rude but he was suddenly desperate to keep her inside that room.

"You don't think I would visit just because I missed you?" she whispered indignantly. She didn't notice her little slip, nor did she notice Holmes briefly furrowing his brows.

"No" he said simply, her eyes narrowed in disbelief "You want some kind of favor" he stated. She stared at him through glassy eyes, because she knew he was right.

She sniffed and raised her chin pridefully "Yes, I do need something from you" she said as coldly as possible.

His jaw tightened slightly and his eyes slipped to her hands squeezing the fabric covering her abdomen.

"Well?" he said when she didn't continue "What is it you need from me?" this time he was careful not to sound too brusque.

She looked distressed, nibbling on her lower lip and running her eyes over every single feature in his face. She sighed.

"I need protection" she flinched visibly as she said it but tried to retain as much dignity as possible by looking at him square in the eye

His eyebrows knitted together, he briefly considered teasing her, but he could see it was truly embarrassing for her. She usually ran away from protection and straight into the danger.

"But you said you were very capable of protecting yourself" he wondered, raising an eyebrow at her.

"I _can_ protect myself" she said fiercely "it's him I can't protect" she added in a whisper, glancing down at her round belly.

"Who?" he asked with exaggerated ignorance. She could see a spark of amusement in his eyes.

"I'm pregnant" she announced faking seriousness. He gasped a very false gasp, his eyes opened wide and his hand went to his chest.

"Really? I would have never imagined it!" she started laughing, he just smiled at her.

"Are you done laughing at me now?" he asked when her laughter died down.

"Yes" she answered cynically. "Are you done smiling?"

"Is my smile so hideous that you don't want it in my face?"

"No! not at all!" she amended "Actually, it should be there more often, it's healthy for you".

But ignoring the benefits to his very damaged health, he went serious again. "How far along are you?" he asked clinically.

"What?! The best detective in London doesn't know?" she was perfectly imitating his previous display of fake surprise. He just sighed and rolled his eyes.

* * *

Was it too out of character? When did you realize/suspect she was preggers? _Was it too out of character?_ Did I use any word too much? Was it too out of character? Was Holmes being a softie? **Was it too out of character? **Was it disgustingly sappy? _**Was it too out of character?**_ Does it even make sense? WAS IT TOO OUT OF CHARACTER? **AM I PARANOID?** Please tell me!!


	2. Sadly, I did

**Thank you guys soo much for letting me know I'm not stupid for believing Irene could actually get pregnant.**

**I'm sorry for taking so long for (again) so little, but I was recovering from a serious lack of sleep. **

**So in the late afternoon I sat down and tried to write, I had to go to the kitchen and spill a glass of chocolate milkshake all over the floor (and the clean it) to get inspiration for this.**

**I thought**** this time they're (a lot) more in character.**

**P.S. ****I was nodding off when I wrote "smiling healthy" in the last chapter =p, so embarrassing!**

_

* * *

_

"_Is my smile so hideous that you don't want it in my face?"_

"_No! not at all!" she amended __"Actually, it should be there more often, it's healthy for you"__. _

_But ignoring the benefits to his very damaged health, he went serious again. "How far along are you?" he asked clinically._

"_What?! The best detective in London doesn't know?" she was perfectly imitating his previous display of fake surprise. He just sighed and rolled his eyes._

"I would estimate your fetus to be in the middle of the second trimester" she blinked and stared blankly. It was his turn to chuckle.

"Sorry darling, medical terms. Approximately four months and a half"

Her eyes widened the smallest bit, but no bit was too small for Sherlock Holmes, "I already knew that-

"No you didn't" he sharply interrupted, making her breath catch in her throat "You did not know how long you have been pregnant, that is why you needed me to guess" he accused. "Have you not seen a doctor?" he asked rather angrily.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath; she wasn't there to be nagged. "You know my lifestyle is not the easiest, but-"

"There's someone after you" she just sighed and closed her mouth, letting him have his little rant "You would usually run from place to place, hiding until they got tired of looking for you and gave up, leaving you to continue with your stealing habits, but with a child in the way…"

"Isn't it just lovely that I don't have to waste my saliva with you?"

He snorted and said "You know how lovely of a man I am, dear. So you're settling here, if I'm correct."

She raised an eyebrow at him.

"I know, how silly of me. Of course I'm correct" she just rolled her eyes "And when they find you're here you want me to protect you" he made air quotes "or, more likely, get rid of them." he then looked down at his cup "Oh!, what a shame. My tea must have gotten cold by now"

She chuckled. It never ceased to amaze her how careless he could be. "I wonder how I could have forgotten that we understand each other so easily"

"Yes. Sometimes I wonder that too" he said in a low voice, still staring at the half empty cup. That was always the main mystery in the world's brightest detective's mind.

"I'm just saving time, you know?" that brought him back from his reverie, he knitted his eyebrows in clear confusion. "One way or another, I would have ended up here" she smiled affectionately "don't I always?" she stared at him in a way that, he was sure, would haunt him every lonely night for the rest of his existence.

"Why are you so sure I will accept?" he was trying to salvage what little willpower he had left. "How do you know I won't turn you in to the authorities? It wouldn't be easy to escape this time"

"You would never do such thing"

"Which one?" he challenged

"Both. You never accept… and yet you always end up on my side" her smile widened "And you would never turn me in because you know that if you do I would never come back" he just glared at her, his mouth forming a small pout.

"I warned you, dear" the pet-name seemed to take on a different meaning "You would miss me"

He sighed "Sadly, I did"

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I swear there's more coming!! I usually get inspired at night. I just thought it was a good place to cut it.

Again, Thank you so much, really.


	3. Comical Nanny

Thanks sooo much to coco-flavoured-tiktaks for adding Glowingly to her community Holmes/Irene!, go check it out, it's exactly what we needed in this fandom.

Sorry for posting And so it is, I just needed to take it out of my system. Hopefully now I'll concentrate better on this. I'm planning to have Watson next chapter.

Enjoy!

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"I should leave before it gets dark"

"Leave? To where, if I may ask" he said amusedly

"Back to our old room in The Grand" she just loved reminding him of all they went through in that room.

"I thought you'd be staying here"

"Why would you think that?"

"Because, dear, it will be next to impossible to protect you if you're staying at the other end of the town" he explained in a bored tone "As brilliant as I am, I can't just guess when you'll be attacked, and even if I did, I wouldn't be able to get there fast enough" his voice darkened at the end, letting just a little of concern show through.

"Well!, I had no idea you cared about us so much!" she teased.

"Just being practical, no big deal" he said nervously as he stood "I'll have Mrs. Hudson prepare the guest room for you and then I'll go to The Grand to retrieve your belongings"

"Guest room? Since when do you have a guest room?"

He stopped at the door and turned around "Since my dear college got married"

"Aw! He finally left you! I'm so sorry, I had no idea" she was trying very hard not to laugh.

He sighed tiredly and said in a weak voice "Irene, could we please drop the hurtful remarks?"

She blinked in surprise, "Of course" she mumbled. He gave her a lifeless smile before walking out the door.

She slumped back in the chair, frowning at the door.

He rested his back against the door, catching his breath. He was feeling overwhelmed, it was too much information even for him.

Irene pregnant, he didn't even want to start acknowledging it. He tried not to think of her too often, just like he tried not to think about how she was always someone else's.

She was always eager to marry another rich man who had fallen madly in love with her looks, but didn't know a thing about what laid beneath her soft skin; and then he was forced to face the fact that nothing about him could keep her by his side.

He dragged his feet down the stairs, pitying himself for being so helpless when it came to her.

"Mrs. Hudson" he called from beside the front door, when she joined him she seemed distressed "Acclimate Mr. Watson's old room for Miss Adler, she will be staying with us for… some time" Would she leave after her pursuers were taken care of?

"I knew it! That poor lass's child is yours!" she accused angrily "At least you'll be taking the responsibility for your reckless actions"

"No, Nanny" he sighed "I'm not that creature's father" he said somewhat darkly

She gazed at him skeptically for a while, before a smile formed in her wrinkled lips "Oh, Mr. Holmes" she sighed "I knew deep down you had a heart" Holmes was scared when he actually saw affection in her eyes "You fell in love with that girl, now you'll marry her and take her child as yours" he just looked at her dumbfounded, wondering if she was serious. When she didn't retract herself, he erupted in laughter.

Mrs. Hudson watched, deeply confused, as Holmes laughed his head off, he was almost rolling on the floor. Irene was walking down the stairs and asked Mrs. Hudson if he was alright, she looked at her worriedly and shrugged.

"Ah, Nanny!" he exclaimed, holding his sides as he tried to catch his breath "I had no idea you were such a good comedian" he was wiping tears from his eyes and snorting under his breath "Me, married!" he mumbled before walking out the door.

"What was that about?" asked Irene after a moment of silence. She was really starting to worry about his mental health; a few minutes ago he looked truly depressed.

"I've got no idea, Miss" lied Mrs. Hudson in a serious voice. She shock her head in disappointment, she was just a sentimental old woman, of course he wouldn't change his ways. "Let me show you your room Miss…"

"Adler, Irene Adler" she smiled and extended her hand.

"I'm Mrs. Hudson, the landlady"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes speaks fondly of you" she lied politely

"Does he, now?" she mumbled under her breath, "May I ask how you met?"

"Oh! It's too long of a tale. We're old friends"

Married. Married and with a child. It sounded ridiculous a moment ago.

Now though, it sounded mockingly sweet, the life someone like him could only dream about, within his reach, but not his to have.

* * *

Wow, I think I'm becoming myself again. Whatever. I'm posting this at 11:30 (in my country) so I did get it done before the end of the day. But it'll be tomorrow by the time it actually appears :(

Thanks For Reading!! (and coping with my tardiness)


	4. Cleopatra

**Hey everyone!, thank you so much (again) for your reviews! I'll never get tired of telling you how much I appreciate it. **

**I don't really have anything to ramble about today… scary.**

**OH WAIT!!! Yeah, right. This time I actually googled for some synonyms!!!! *smiles proudly***

**AND today we're having JERK Sherlock… sort of… well, not really. **

**Now… ENJOY!**

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"So you believe it will be a boy?" wondered Irene from where she sat on the bed, watching Mrs. Hudson clean the room.

"Of course, dear! It's written all over your belly!" Irene just frowned and rubbed her round stomach.

They heard heavy footsteps coming slowly up the stairs, moments later there was a knock on the door, Mrs. Hudson opened it to a panting Holmes surrounded by several boxes and suitcases. Mrs. Hudson immediately started putting away dresses and shoes while Holmes sat down in a nearby chair trying to catch his breath. He sensed Irene's gaze and looked up to find her smiling amusedly, he only managed to glare at her

"Don't bother, Mrs. Hudson. I can take care the rest" said Irene without looking away from him.

"But some of these are heavy and you shouldn't tire yourself" she answered warmly.

"I'll have Mr. Holmes help me in case they're too much for me" her smile widened, Holmes just groaned.

"Well, in that case" said Mrs. Hudson, now smiling too "I shall go back to the kitchen. Dinner will be served at seven" she quickly walked out the door, hardly containing laughter upon Holmes' pouting face.

He silently started taking things out, he'd show them to her and she'd nod towards the place they should be put in, always smiling, of course. He looked pensive, distracted even, and it worried her immensely that after a few minutes he still hadn't uttered a word, nor had he complained about her demands.

"What do you think it will be?" she asked conversationally as he was hanging the last dress inside of the closet, his head whipped around to look at her.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Do you think it will be a boy or a girl?" she said patiently. The look on his face was priceless. He was not only shocked, but confused and just utterly terrified. She was trying very hard not to laugh.

"I honestly don't know what to say" he admitted when he found his voice.

"Mrs. Hudson says it will be a boy"

He sighed and wiped his forehead "Why didn't you say so first?!" he reproached, sounding annoyed "It's obvious that it will be a girl" his arrogant smirk was back.

She snorted and shook her head in amusement. _That's more like him_, she thought.

"Have you thought of any names?" he brought his pipe to his mouth and went to sit back in the chair by the door.

"Not really" she said coldly "Any suggestions?"

He pursed his lips and stared into the distance "Well, since we already know it will be a girl" she just rolled her eyes "Why don't you just name her after yourself?"

She made a disgusted face and shook her head "I have never been too fond of my name. It's quite… boring"

"Is that the reason why you're constantly changing it?" he stared at her pretending to look innocent, but the accusation was evident.

Glaring, she said "Not really". It came out more like a warning.

Holmes decided to humor her. "Esme?"

"Too gentle" he nodded in agreement.

"Elizabeth?"

"Too ordinary"

"Right. Uhm… Diana?"

"Nah, too happy"

"How about Carmen?"

"Too theatrical"

"Cleopatra!" he exclaimed with an air of sophistication

She gazed at him in disbelief "Really, Sherlock? Really?"

"Well, It would be easier if I knew what kind of name you're looking for"

She eyed the room, as if looking for inspiration "Maybe… something exotic?"

He just gave her a pointed look. "Cleopatra is a very exotic name" he insisted.

"But it's ugly!" she whined. He sighed and rubbed his forehead.

"Anastasia, perhaps?"

"Hum… Anastasia Adler" she voiced tentatively "No, we should avoid names with so many A's"

"Why don't you try it with her father's last name? Or did you want me to deduce that one too?" he said shamelessly.

She stomped to the door, opening it wide "Get out" she ordered. He went to stand in front of her, raising his index finger he opened his mouth to speak. "GET OUT!" she yelled, tears running down her face now. He stepped out of the room and she slammed the door in his face. His eyebrows were furrowed in confusion as he eyed the door cautiously, after a few seconds he could make out the sniffling sound from inside the room. He heaved a sigh and walked back to his own room, shutting the door just as loudly.

* * *

Sorry if Irene's acting a little… bipolar, but that's just the way pregnant women get. Trust me, I have two younger siblings.

I know I promised Watson last chapter, but I'm already yawning.

Next chapter is already planned out though, and it has John Watson in all his medical glory.

now: **MRS. HUDSON vs. SHERLOCK HOLMES**...…. I mean, Boy or Girl? :)


	5. Uncalled For

**Hi, i have to say i'm highly surprised at your opinions for the baby, but then again, i come from a very different fandom called Bones.**

**and i also have to say i had kinda, sort of already decided, but i'm reconsidering my original plan and so, the question will remain (even for me) until the time of the birth actually comes. Boy or girl?**

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A knock on the door startled him awake. "Mr. Holmes, please open up!" came Mrs. Hudson voice from the hall. Holmes groaned and furrowed deeper into the chair he'd fallen asleep in.

"Go away, Nanny!"

"No wonder why you took her in. She's just like you" that got him on his feet.

"What?" he snapped whilst swinging the door open.

"Dinner is ready, but your guest has locked herself inside her room" he ran past her and straight to Irene's door.

"Miss Adler" he called, knocking on her door.

"Go Away!" Mrs. Hudson had her hands on her hips as she smirked smugly. He just rolled his eyes at her.

"Miss Adler, Have you been crying all this time?" his ear was firmly pressed against the door.

He heard a sniff, then silence, then a "No…" that sounded more like a question.

He winced and bumped his head against the door a couple of times before turning away "Mrs. Hudson, Try to stop her crying, please" he said as he rushed downstairs.

"Where are you going?" she called outraged.

"To fetch Dr. Watson" he shouted over his shoulder before running out the door.

Less than 5 minutes later he was knocking on Mary and Watson's door.

"What do you want, Holmes?" sighed Mary after seeing who it was.

"Dear Mary, would you please lend me your husband for a couple of hours?" he exhaled in a rush.

She eyed him suspiciously. "Are you saying he would be back tonight?"

"I promise he'll be back in your arms, safe and sound, before ten"

"Alright. Come in-

"Actually, I'm in a bit of a hurry"

"Dear, Holmes needs you" she called into the house

"Ask him to bring his medical supplies"

"And wants your medical services" she added.

A few awkward minutes later, Watson was standing in the doorway, kissing Mary goodbye.

"The sooner we leave, Watson, the sooner you'll be making love to her!" Holmes yelled, already a few meters ahead.

Mary blushed a deep crimson while Watson was shooting daggers with his eyes.

"That was absolutely uncalled for" he growled.

* * *

Watson was a little nervous to see they were headed to 221b Baker Street. "Holmes, did you accidentally shoot Mrs. Hudson?"

"My Dear friend, you know me better than that, If I'd shoot her it would not be an accident"

"Holmes" he warned.

"Plus, What makes you think I'd let a doctor near her?"

_Well_,_ that's true_. He sighed in relief, though he was still a little horrified at Holmes' almost murder confession.

* * *

"Has the situation improved, Nanny?" he was answered by another loud cry from inside the room. "Poor thing, Why did I think it was a good idea to leave her with such sinister company?" Mrs. Hudson could only glare at him.

"What's going on? Who's in there?" asked Watson as he joined them outside Irene's door.

"Miss Adler, someone would like to see you" he got the same answer.

"Go Away!"

"Irene Adler's in there!" said Watson in shock, Holmes only nodded as he tried to pick the lock.

"Sherlock, Stop trying to break into my rooms!" he couldn't help but chuckle.

"And just how did you think I can possibly help lure her out? I barely know the woman!" exclaimed Watson, raising his voice.

"Who's out there?" called Irene.

"We're going to blackmail her" whispered Holmes. "Tell her who you are" he ordered.

"I..I'm Dr. John Watson, Miss Adler" he shouted hesitantly.

"Tell her you came to check her"

His eyebrows knitted together "I'm here to check you"

"And the baby" added Holmes. Watson's eyes almost popped out of their sockets.

"What?" he mouthed at him.

"Just say it" he mouthed back.

"And your baby" he called.

They heard footsteps and the door swung open. Watson nearly fainted at the sight.

"I'm so sorry, Doctor. Please come in" Watson blinked and turned to glare at Holmes while he picked up his medical supplies.

He walked in, and just as Holmes was about to enter she slammed the door, in his face. Again.

"I guess I deserved that" he murmured before pressing his ear against it.

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Thanks for reading!!!


	6. Loud and Clear

Who watched the Grammys? I just loved Robert Downey Jr. "the most self-important actor of his generation" LOL!!!

And now… This chapter goes to… (drum roll)

YAY! TAYLOR SWIFT!!!!!! FEARLESS IS THE ALBUM OF THE YEAR!!!!!!! I knew it! She's the best!!! (sorry, I'm her biggest fan, no flames please)

I'm basically ordering you to enjoy this, I struggled A LOT with it.

**Irene**** is not dumb or anything, back in those days girls weren't informed about this stuff, only doctors and midwifes, plus I believe that she's been on her own most of her life and by the kind of life she led I don't really see who could have possibly told her anything about pregnancies. PLUS menstruation (I really hate that word) was extremely embarrassing.**

* * *

The first thing he noticed were her clavicles.

Then her cheekbones, then her jaw line, and when her back was to him, her waist.

Bringing a chair to sit beside her bed, he asked "Miss Adler, when was the last time you ate?" as casually as his dry throat would allow him.

"This morning" she said nonchalantly.

He was about to call out for Mrs. Hudson to bring up some food for her, before Holmes' voice came from the hallway "Already on the way".

Watson gave a humorless chuckle, but upon seeing Irene's blazing glare at the door, a true smile formed in his lips.

"He's just worried about you" he told her.

"I was merely walking by!" was the immediate response.

"Whatever you say Holmes!" he shouted back at him, before mouthing "He is worried" at Irene. She sighed and looked back at Watson, patiently waiting for him to talk. "Well, I'll start with a few routine questions" she nodded "When was your last menstruation?" her eyes were bugging out and a faint blush took over her cheeks. Watson creased his brows questioningly and she nodded towards the door. "We both know he won't be going away any time soon" he whispered.

"What does that even have to do?" she whisper-shouted. His smile widened just a little, he gets that question a lot.

"Well, it will help me estimate when you'll be giving birth" he answered calmly; he's always understood that it's an uncomfortable topic.

She looked unconvinced. "I don't really remember" she said, pursing her lips.

"Please try to remember" John Watson had the invaluable virtue of patience.

Her face scrunched in concentration. "Probably… five or six months ago" she was fiddling with her fingers in her stomach.

Watson's face fell a little. "Miss Adler, when did you realize you were pregnant?" he asked cautiously.

"When it became nearly impossible to tie a corset around me" she meant it like a joke, but his expression was stunned.

"Miss, when did you stop wearing corsets?"

"About two months ago" Watson flinched visibly.

"Have you felt the baby move inside of the womb?" his voice was tight with concern and his forehead had a little sheen of sweat.

Her eyes were narrowed as she eyed him suspiciously. "Not really" she murmured. He closed his eyes and grabbed his head between his hands. She was slowly starting to panic. "Is there a problem?"

He raised his head to look at her, biting his lips together as he pondered on the right words. "Well… Miss, you're almost six months into your pregnancy and-"

"Six?" she interrupted "but Holmes said four and a half…"

Watson sighed sadly "You don't know how I wish he was right this time"

"What?" she whispered tearfully.

"Miss Adler, You've lost an incredible amount of weight, your baby is not as big as it should be, and thus you look less pregnant. But for the trained eye… I can tell by the way you walk how much your hips have already expanded for childbirth…" her brow furrowed just a little but she nodded for him to carry on. "The constant use of corsetry during early pregnancy, though, may have caused the baby to adopt a different position inside of the womb or…" he trailed of, not sure if he should voice his concerns.

Her breathing was gradually becoming erratic and she seemed to be trying to stop trembling. "Or…"she prompted anyways.

"Miss Adler, I'm going to be very honest with you" she didn't like his tone. "The corset…" he swallowed hard and took a deep breath. "The corset could have killed the baby a long time ago" that pretty much sent her into hysterics.

"No, no…" she would mumble as the sobs violently wrecked her body. He tried to calm her down saying it was only a possibility but she didn't seem to know he was even there. Holmes was pounding away on the unfortunate door, yelling at Watson to let him in. He started panicking when she wound her arms tightly around her belly, he gently attempted to pry her hands away but she only seemed to tighten her grip, dangerously squeezing. Then she started screaming and Holmes threatened to throw down the door –obviously too desperate to think about picking the lock.

With Irene's shrieks and Holmes' shouts, Watson's brain was just about to shut down; his last sane thought came in one word. _Blackmail_. Irene would do anything if regarded the baby's well being.

So he firmly grabbed her shoulders and said "this is the worst you could be doing to that baby!" raising his voice over the commotion.

She froze, her face a mask of pure terror. Always the gentleman, he couldn't help feeling terrible for being so harsh, but at least she wasn't crushing her baby anymore.

"Breathe" he ordered. Careful as to not moving more than needed, she did so. He proceeded to remove her arms from her stomach, she numbly let go. "Now, lay in your back. I need you to uncover your abdomen" somehow, she managed to open the kimono in a way that only revealed her belly.

Gently, he started pressing the tips of his finger along the left side of her waist, not much later he said "Put your hand here" leaving his fingers on the spot until her hand came up to touch it. "That's its head". Her hand rubbed the spot, not really daring to press it.

From there, his pressing fingers traveled uphill, stopping about two inches away from her bellybutton. He asked her to put her other hand in that spot. When she did he turned to open his case, taking out of it something that looked like a listening trumpet.

"What's that?" she asked almost timidly.

"It's a Foetal Stethoscope" he said it like that described everything about it. "I need you to be very still" he put the bell end on the other spot he had asked her to touch, holding it there with his hand he pressed his ear to the other end, then he took his hand off so only his ear was keeping it in place. He listened expectantly for a few minutes, until he could make out the throbbing sound.

He closed his eyes and smiled "We have a heartbeat". He listened for a little longer than necessary, enjoying the sound that told him he didn't have an innocent life in his conscience.

She was blinking back tears, she decided she had already cried enough for one day.

"Miss Adler, your baby is very small. So no more skipping meals" she nodded. "And no leaving this bed if it's not absolutely necessary" she moaned a little before reluctantly agreeing. "Tranquility is also very important. So no more crying allowed" and nodded again.

"Will he move?" she was still rubbing the place were its head was.

"He or She" he emphasized amusedly "Will move when he or she has enough strength to do so. If you follow my instructions, he or she shall be moving in no time" she kept nodding. "You should also talk to it".

"It can hear me?" she asked in awe.

"Loud and clear" his smile couldn't have been softer.

"Uhm…" she frowned at her belly as she rummaged her brain for something to say.

"You don't have to do it right now"

She sighed in relief.

He chuckled and crouched down so he was at her eye level. "One last thing, Smile." She frowned instead. "Irene, Your happiness is to your baby what the sun is to a plant" and granted, a smile broke through her face.

She said "Thank you" in a heartfelt whisper.

* * *

**I'****m not shipping them.** I just wanted Watson to be a very caring and sweet doctor. That's all. NO Watson/Irene. Not AT ALL.

Was all of that dramatic and unnecessary? Was it boring? Did you miss Holmes too much? Did I ruin your day? Do you hate me now? did i sound grumpy on my rambles? Boy or girl? Any suggestions for boy/girl names? Did I make you want to ship Watson/Irene? if I did, will you please lie? Did I ramble too much today? If I did, will you please lie again? did you miss my paranoid questions? if you didn't, will you lie for a third time?


	7. Boundless

Wow, chapter 7, i never dreamt of coming so far, and they're still in the same day!! parallel world never cease to amaze me...

Thank you soo much for your reviews! (31, that's 32 more than i imagined!!!!) really, you make me wanna keep going!!!

i think this is the fluffiest i've gotten, and it's kinda sad fluff...

* * *

"Sorry my friend, The lady does not wish to see you" laughed Watson. The moment he turned on the knob Holmes had tried to shove past him into Irene's room, but glancing over his shoulder she shook her head at him, and so Watson, the living image of chivalry, managed to squeeze out without letting Holmes catch the slightest glimpse of her. Somehow, he also managed to close the door in Holmes' face for the third time that day.

"It's my house" he protested.

"But that's my room" Holmes had to fight the urge to punch the triumphant smirk off his face. "Now, seriously, Holmes" Watson grabbed him by the arm and led him a few feet away from the door. "I know that bothering people is in your most inner nature" he only got an empty glare before Holmes returned his attention to the closed door. "And I know that teasing her is your way of showing that you care" this time, though, it was filled with venom. "But you really shouldn't provoke her" he sighed (and I'm pretty sure you can guess which wooden object he looked at). "So maybe you should start caring for her the way normal people do"

"Whatever made you believe I have that kind of reaction in me?" he whispered absently.

"Might have been 'Goddammit Watson, open the bloody door!'?" his imitation made Holmes sound like an ogre.

He pouted. "I do not sound like that"

"Yes, you do. But your ears are far to damaged by your own awful violin playing to notice"

Holmes stared, deeply hurt, at his life long friend "I cannot believe the selfish way you are taking advantage of my time of weakness to mock me, I expected better from you, Watson"

The smug smile didn't seem to be leaving his face any time soon. "So you admit she makes you weak!"

His teeth grounded together as his eyes tried to burn a hole in Watson's head "Stop being right! That's my job!"

Chuckling, Watson made it a mental note to get Irene and her baby a very expensive 'thank you' present.

"I'll stop being right". Holmes was just about to sigh in relief… "Only if you treat Irene more kindly" Just as planned, Holmes sighed, only it wasn't relief, it was rendition.

Mrs. Hudson was conveniently coming upstairs, carrying a tray with food for Irene.

"Alright" they shook hands and then he walked up to Mrs. Hudson. "Thank you very much, I'll take care of this". Not giving her a chance to refuse he took the tray from her and hurried to Irene's door. Watson shook his head in amusement as he turned for the stairs.

* * *

She really just wanted to sleep, she wasn't hungry.

So when the knock took her away from dreamland she started to fume.

However, when she opened the door, she didn't have time to be angry.

He stood there, looking sad and vulnerable, and she could no longer be mad at him.

Instinctively, she considered it was an act, but it didn't really matter.

Act or no act, it always worked. Irreversibly so.

She stepped aside and he entered the room, carefully leaving the tray on the nightstand.

"Do you think we should…forget the past? Start anew?" he mused in a raw whisper

"Yes, maybe we should…" he sighed and eyed her sadly. "That would be the best" he nodded just a little, swallowing back any protests. She smiled, a low chuckle escaping her lips "but neither of us wants to…"

"I'm willing to" he looked determined; he knew it was the only way to move forwards. But he was also desolated. Even if not the best, they had a past together. And with her, together was better than any best.

"You're willing, but you don't want to" she explained somewhat sweetly. "We're both driven by what we want; we wouldn't keep that promise..." She chuckled again "Sooner rather than later… we'll both cheat"

"Should we live in the past, then?"

She laughed, free, boundless. He was a little hypnotized "Sherlock…" she kept chuckling, shaking her head "Extremes are just not our thing, honey." He smiled. "We were not made for boundaries"

"Then what were we made for?" He already knew the answer.

She shrugged nonchalantly "Who knows? Maybe we ought to float around aimlessly" he chuckled, she was close enough.

As long as she kept the 'we'.

* * *

i couldn't help giving Watson a little revenge over Holmes.

i feel very... myself today. that's weird.

the ever constant question... BOY OR GIRL??


	8. Broccoli

Sorry for the delay, but i think this is longer than usual, fluffier than usual too, so…

* * *

Time seemed to slow down during that month.

Holmes took a few dull cases – stolen jewelry, cheating husband, lost person… nothing of consequence. When he was out in his quest for clues, she was left with Mrs. Hudson, who had to do several things around the house, and she wasn't allowed to go out off the damn little room. Holmes had practically moved his library to her room. But she never really liked to read, so she eyed the books, writing down any name she found decent, then when he came home she'd mention them, he usually disliked her favorites and supported the ugliest ones.

"Petra?" she thought it was plain disgusting. Yet she said it with a smile.

"Will I get to see it on the finalists?"

"No way" her smile constantly growing.

He sighed "Why do you even ask me, then?"

She shrugged. "Sophie?"

"Are you serious?" he asked carefully.

She nodded. He stuck out his tongue. "You have a terrible taste, Sherlock"

"Is not as bad as Watson's, he named the dog"

"Gladstone, Petra" she compared. "No, yours is definitely worst"

He tried to glare at her, but his smile was stronger. "Proudly so"

But the duty called him rather often, and in her opinion, for two much time. An hour away in the morning and another two in the afternoon were agonizing for her. So one day she commented to Watson how bored she was when Holmes was away. He had smiled, touched by her affection towards his friend, and said that he would ask his wife to come visit her. When she did, she tried to teach Irene how to knit.

"My baby will be very cold" she said when she compared hers and Mary's progress after two hours.

"Well, you have plenty of time, I'm sure you can finish at least one" Irene raised her one-inch-long, poorly knitted green creation for her to see. Mary frowned at it. "Don't worry. I'll knit some for you. Pink or Blue? "

Irene instantly grinned, this was her favorite topic lately. "Mrs. Hudson predicts a boy, yet Sherlock insists on a girl"

Mary found that very sweet. "I wouldn't have suspected him to make such choice"

"Oh, he just wants to contradict Mrs. Hudson" she waved dismissively.

"I wouldn't be so sure" she murmured, leaving Irene to wonder if she had only imagined her comment.

Although attempting to knit with Mary was enjoyable in some peaceful way, Irene continuously felt that she was slowly –very slowly, indeed- being turned into a housewife, and she kept shuddering at the thought.

Her most beautiful dresses and embroidered gowns hung sadly inside of the wardrobe, because only the exotic kimonos would fit her now. It was such a waste, she thought. She remained strong though, and never allowed herself to openly complain.

Then, one morning, she found her Parisian perfume bottle to be empty. Not crying took a great effort.

That afternoon Watson went to check on her, and when he asked if she was eating properly she turned to glare at Holmes –Who had dutifully earned his right to be present.

"He comes in without knocking every morning exactly at eight, carrying a tray with more food than five people could eat, and he stays until he made sure I didn't hide or throw away anything" Holmes smiled warmly at her, she turned back to Watson when she felt her anger slipping away "One day, I didn't want to eat the last piece of broccoli, so he stabbed it with the fork and coerced me into opening my mouth". Watson turned to Holmes, ready to scold him.

"You know I wouldn't hurt her" he reminded solemnly.

Watson sighed. "Then how did you make her open her mouth?" he asked curious.

He smirked devilishly, turning to look at Irene.

"He tickled my feet" she sad flatly, glowering at the empty space in front of her.

Watson burst out laughing, deeply regretting that he missed such an event. Holmes couldn't help himself as he joined him, recalling her expression after he stuffed the vegetable into her giggling mouth.

She stared at them in disbelief, her eyes watering and her lips trembling.

Holmes noticed and instantly sobered up, searching her eyes worriedly. When their gazes locked, she started weeping. He rushed to her side, sitting down beside her on the bed. He reached a hand out to wipe her cheeks, she tried to swat it away, but it kept coming back. When he tried to hold her she started slapping and shoving at his chest. "I hate you" she shrieked, but his arms kept trying to close around her. "I hate you! You arrogant bastard!".

Less than a minute later she was willingly burying her head in the crook of his neck. He sighed when he could finally embrace her.

"I'm sorry" she sobbed. "I was lying, I don't hate you". He rested his head on top of hers, smoothing circles on her back and whispering reassurances as she kept apologizing.

Once she was breathing considerably slower, he asked "Were you also lying about me being an arrogant bastard?"

She sniffed. "No, you really are an arrogant bastard". He chuckled.

"At least you don't hate me" he whispered before burying his head in her soft hair, looking for the comfort of her perfume. Which he couldn't find. "Why didn't you tell me you had no more perfume left?" he asked outraged.

"I wanted to see how long it took you to notice". He smiled, resting his head on hers again.

"My detective skills have failed you miserably. I ought to redeem myself"

"And how do you intend to do that?"

"Before the end of the day, you shall have a brand new bottle of Parisian perfume"

Watson had never felt so ignored in his whole life. He had also never felt happier about being ignored.

* * *

7:05 read the clock on the wall. He was never late with her dinner.

By 7:06 the door opened to Mrs. Hudson and the food tray.

"Sorry dear, He hasn't returned yet" said Mrs. Hudson upon seeing her disappointed look.

"It's alright" sighed Irene. "I'm not very hungry tonight, you know?"

Mrs. Hudson laughed "Mr. Watson was right, you really are meant to be"

"Excuse me?" it didn't have the same redundancy anymore, she was already used to Mrs. Hudson's comments.

"He told me to make sure you ate it, no matter what you said" Irene looked at her pleadingly. Mrs. Hudson sighed "Promise me you'll try to eat at least a little. Believe me, it's for your child's good"

Irene smiled "I know, I promise I'll try"

"Alright. Good night, Miss" And with that, she was gone.

Irene sighed again. She sighed too much when he wasn't around.

* * *

Some minutes after one in the morning, she was awakened by a very familiar noise.

When her eyes adjusted to the darkness she stood up; careful not to trip, she walked to the door and opened it to a very familiar sight.

"You just don't get it, do you?" kneeling on the floor was Holmes, unsurprisingly trying to pick the lock.

He sighed and stood up "I'll stop trying to break on your rooms when you stop catching me"

She chuckled "What was the motive this time?"

His lips were a thin line as he eyed her hesitantly. "I was just going to leave this on your pillow" he handed her the perfume bottle.

She stared at it smilingly. He was drinking in her joyful expression. "Late again but…" he trailed off when she directed that smile at him.

He was little unnerved by how much a perfume meant to her. But then again, it was an excellent perfume, he knew that better than anyone.

And for that smile, he would get her every existent drop of Parisian perfume.

* * *

I wasn't sure if 'parisian perfume' was meant as a brand or just the place it came from. But go with me and pretend its a brand.

Again sorry for the delay. AND I JUST HAVE TO KEEP ASKING, Boy or Girl? (when you no longer see the question it means i already decided)

Thank you for reading!!!!


	9. Romance No 2

**Incredibly sorry**** for the long wait.** I was having a school break when I started on this, now though, I'm back to school and I have homework, so I beg your patience!! I'm gonna try to update ASAP, but I can't promise you anything.

I remembered he plays the violin and went all DUH! on myself. I have a friend who plays the violin, yet I know nothing about it. But I do have a broken G string he gave me. It's such a pretty little piece of… whatever it is made of.

So in my country, G note is called 'sol' (which means sun) and I said: 'I have George's violin's sol, now he'll only play gloomy songs!' LOL

* * *

The perfume incident was only a small breath of air, as was every minute he spent with her. He was more paranoid than ever.

When out, it proved very difficult to stop mentally searching for shortcuts to get to 221b Baker Street the fastest if needed. When going to get her food, his mind would automatically provide him of all the possible, probable and improbable ways someone could break into her room while he was away.

At night, he would lie in complete and utter silence, straining his ears to catch every little sound coming from the other side of the wall. Before the end of the first week he could already make out her breathing, few nights later he noticed that she woke up around four in the morning and softly cried herself to sleep again. The first night he was very upset, he barely resisted going out; but then other nights, she started laughing in her sleep. Out of habit, his mind tried to make a regular pattern out off the events, considering too every minimal detail about her day. That puzzle just didn't seem to fit.

The only cure to his relentless thoughts, he found, was to stay with her every waking moment. If her pursuers came, he would be ready.

And the reason for his desperate measures was the same one as to everything he's recently done. Her.

Or, more likely, himself. He not only wasn't allowed to, but sincerely loathed to make her cry, and that was the constant side effect for trying to get information out of her. So he was blindly sitting around, waiting for some-unknown-body to come fight him.

His senses were at their sharpest.

* * *

One rainy evening, "He hasn't kicked" commented Irene as she rubbed her belly longingly, something she had taken to do a lot the last few days.

Holmes stared inquisitively, but she didn't carry on. "What has Watson got to say about that?"

"Oh, he said it's a matter of time" her tone wasn't appreciative. "He's been saying that for more than a month".

"Well, then you should wait" he was finding it hard not to laugh at her.

"I haven't heard you play at all". His brow furrowed at the change of topic.

"Watson let me on some interesting views of his about that matter"

Irene smiled knowingly, "But he is not here right now…" she trailed off with something remotely close to a puppy look on her face.

He smiled too, walking out and coming back, violin in hand, in record time. "Any requests?"

"Surprise me" She was beaming at him.

He sighed and pursed his lips as if deep in thought, then he started playing the Merry Widow. She immediately recognized it and gave him a pointed stare. Of course he would remind her of her failed relationships. He grinned, pleased, and changed into Romance No. 2 in F major, a much faster and heartfelt piece.

Irene smiled softly and relaxed back against the headboard as he concentrated on the notes, smirking smugly when he flawlessly played an especially adamant part. With a few lengthy high notes descending to short lower notes, he finished the song.

Something in her face had shifted, though he couldn't tell exactly what it was.

Upon his look of confusion she motioned for him to come near her. He hesitantly went to stand beside her; she wordlessly grabbed his hand and set it on top of her belly.

Adoration shined in her eyes as she watched his expression, his eyebrows were scrunched together and his eyes looked at her stomach like it had suddenly grown that big in front of his eyes.

"is it…" he barely whispered.

"Yes" she hardly contained her tears.

He couldn't believe the faint nudging under his hand.

That was the day Sherlock Holmes fell dementedly in love with Irene Adler's child.

* * *

"Please" Holmes whined. "Cleopatra is a beautiful name"

"Holmes, no daughter of mine will be named Cleopatra. Period"

"C'mon, we could call her Cleo for short" neither gave any importance to the 'we' part.

"I think that might be even worse". He just glared at her. That was the ever-present disagreement, it was getting old. "What if Mrs. Hudson's right and it is a boy?" He scoffed. "Well, then. If it is a boy you will have no say in the name"

"Alright, but if it's a girl the choice is absolutely mine" he extended his hand toward her.

"Deal" she shook his hand animatedly. She had always been on Mrs. Hudson side anyways; she could feel it was a boy. And she was carrying it, so how could she be wrong?

"I was thinking Rachel for a middle name" he stated "Cleopatra Rachel…" her mouth hung open at the horrible name "Right, backwards sounds better, Rachel Cleopatra"

"It's a good thing it will be a boy" they engaged in a glaring contest that could have lasted years, if the unnamed person in discussion hadn't protested, kicking happily inside Irene's belly.

She gasped and his hands instantly went to her stomach "Where?" he asked excitedly. She grabbed his hand and guided it to the spot, where the kicking intensified. Holmes smile was nothing new to her by now, yet she couldn't help the warm, fuzzy feeling inside. "I can't wait to meet her" he murmured.

"Me neither" Watson had estimated at least two more months until labor. They didn't think they could wait that long.

Their lives were getting more and more intertwined every moment, but it felt routine. He could hardly remember how to exist without her, yet they never talked about it. They never mentioned what would happen when she no longer needed him, and it was too easy for him to assume she would stay, it didn't make sense for her not to.

So he started buying. One morning she woke up to him dragging a crib into her room.

"It's beautiful" she awed as she ran her fingers over the polished dark wood. "You shouldn't have". He took it as a thank you.

Another day, he came in with a marionette "It will make an interesting toy"

She smiled adoringly and shook her head in amusement.

But then one afternoon, he came in a little shy, holding something behind his back. She instantly knew he had bought something, but she never imagined the stunning porcelain doll with brown locks and rosy cheeks. "But this is too fragile for a child" yet there was no sign of refusal as she studied it closely.

"I was thinking… maybe when she's older" he was looking down as he spoke, feeling strangely fidgety.

Lately, smiling was guarantied for her.

* * *

That night, Holmes finally heard what he had been listening for.

He bolted from the bed and rushed to her room. In an attempt to make his life easier, she had stopped locking her room. So he opened the door to a tall muscled man approaching the still sleeping Irene. As expected, they started fighting. Holmes purposely making noise to wake her, when she did she froze. "Get away!" he shouted, but she didn't seem to be able to move.

Adrenaline driven, he tried to get rid of him. But in a moment of daze after being unexpectedly punched in the face, the intruder managed to get out of his grip and leave though the window again. Holmes stood in the center of the room, breathing heavily. And instead of going after him, he turned to Irene.

She started crying when she saw the blood dripping from his nose. He sat beside her and gently hugged her while she ruined his already bloodstained shirt. That's how Mrs. Hudson found them the next morning, except they were deeply asleep. _Finally_ she thought as she closed the door silently.

It happened again some weeks later, and Holmes impatiently tried to make her talk, yet it was Watson who managed to find out.

"An Italian tenor. She was traveling around Europe with him, but as usual she grew bored and left him. It seems he wasn't going to let her go that easily" he explained to Holmes after kindly speaking with Irene, who was left crying after a heated word fight with Holmes.

"Is she any calmer?"

"Holmes, she doesn't want to see you and, personally, I think she has every right not to" scolded Watson. He stared at him pleadingly but Watson shook his head angrily "You pretty much called her a whore"

"I didn't mean it!"

"You should've thought about that before saying that she didn't even knew who the father was"

Watson left him bumping his head on the wall, and an hour later he was still going at it.

* * *

I'm drained. That's it for today.

Thank to everyone who suggested names, and I'm still trying to fit it for all of them to be, at the very least, mentioned.

Today I almost decided, but you can still change my mind, so gimme some good reasons, Boy or Girl?

P.s. Highly recommend you to listen to Romance No. 2 in F major by Ludwig van Beethoven (in case you haven't already), it's beautiful, indescribable.


	10. Sonatas

**This is just a little something i managed, but tomorrow's sunday, so i guess i should be able to get some more.**

* * *

"I'm sorry"

She didn't look away from the window.

"Irene..." nothing. Her expression was dead serious.

He sighed and stood there, watching her helplessly.

"I was an idiot…"

"You still are" she whispered flatly "Yet…" sighing. He remained silent. "You are right"

"What?" he snapped in a low voice.

"You're right, I am a whore" her voice didn't falter, she sounded almost careless

"No, you are not" his tone wouldn't accept a refusal.

She chuckled humorlessly "I've been with many men, Sherlock" she turned hear head just in time to catch the flinch in his face "I'm divorced and I'm having a child out of wedlock" she said it patiently, like she was teaching something to him. "isn't that the definition of a whore?"

He stared her down scolding, shaking his head warily.

"Then what am I? A temptress? A femme fatale? Those are just fancy words for the same thing". He kept shaking his head.

"You're Irene Adler" he said fiercely "No category in the universe fits you"

It was her turn to say "What?"

"For example, you're not pretty" she frowned "you're not beautiful, not gorgeous, not stunning" her heart sank a little. "Those categories are not wide enough to fit your beauty. I tried to invent a new word" he started walking towards her "a word that describes your eyes, your hair…" his voice lowered "in such way that just by mentioning it, anyone would automatically think about your face" he was standing right in front of her, his eyes boring into her soul with raw intensity "But then I found that no word would be enough…" he raised his hand to caress her cheek "to describe the softness of your skin" she closed her eyes, leaning her head against his hand.

"I composed eighty-seven sonatas, attempting to depicture the sound of your soul" the soft devotion in his eyes put a lump in her throat "but no sound made by a simple instrument compares to your voice" he smiled then "therefore, only your name lives up to your range" before going serious again. "Our society has invented many categories too, but your actions have never been defined by them. You live by your own rules, and thus, theirs don't apply to you"

She reached up and kissed his cheek, letting her lips linger on his skin before resting her head on his temple. He effortlessly enwrapped his arms round her, closing his eyes to enjoy her scent.

He felt it like an unspoken agreement. Their way to move forwards, without letting go of their pride.

He was more than content with it.

* * *

thank you so much for reading!!


	11. Time

**DID**** I MENTION THAT I'M BACK TO SCHOOL?** Not trying to excuse myself, but I've been busy, I got sucked up on the outside world.

I found that I had some (very little) social life left. And very stubborn friends insisting on me going to some parties. George's birthday (my violinist friend), pajama party at Yaya's, Valentine's Day festivities (by the way, happy valentine's day to all of you!), and now I have Zamara's birthday (which I'm three hours late for). PLUS homework.

Sorry for being so selfish, I know it's been more than a week, but I kinda missed my close friends during the break, and I just couldn't say no.

For the record, Saturday I hung out with a friend, and her almost-brother friend which I'm desperately in love with, but won't look my way… *sigh* I'm sorry, I have to vent out that kind of stuff, it's therapeutic.

* * *

He would have been surprised to find himself laying on his back with her sleeping head resting atop his chest, threading his fingers through her hair and rubbing circles on her round stomach.

Had he acknowledged there was something to be surprised about, he would have been surprised to find that there was no sexuality to the situation, no hidden purposes, no secret agendas, no wariness nor any feeling of discomfort.

He was just holding her, simple as that.

But he wasn't surprised because he didn't find himself.

He wasn't thinking about it. His fingers knotted in her curls on their own accord, his impatience unconsciously made his other hand go looking for a way to be closer to the unborn creature.

He wasn't thinking. He wasn't detecting, he wasn't deducing, he wasn't theorizing, he wasn't planning, he wasn't resolving.

That itself would have been a worthy reason for world-wide panic. The most objective thinking machine… wasn't thinking. He would have shuddered at the thought, but then again, he wasn't having any thoughts.

And had he been thinking, he would have wondered how he lived through so many mysteries without that single moment of peace.

* * *

"I shall be back before noon" called Holmes from the door as he was putting on his coat and hat. At her sigh, he couldn't keep from smiling.

He walked back to the bed, resting a hand on her shoulder. Her green orbs locked in his in a way that frustrated him on an emotional level, for he stopped detecting, deducing, theorizing, planning, resolving… he just felt. He was left alone with his instincts, which he considered to be his worst enemies.

Yet, as akin to reading people as they both were, it became one of their instincts. The milimetrical degree that his head lowered and the fraction of a second his eyes moved to her mouth were far too evident for her.

So she closed her eyes and raised her head, waiting. As if breaking a spell, the absence of her gaze made his mind wake up, just in time for him to see how much of a coward he was.

She was almost disappointed when she felt his lips brush her forehead. "Goodbye Irene" he breathed, it came out more like an apology. Then he leaned down and kissed the peak of her belly "Goodbye Cleo" before rushing out the door.

She sighed again, feeling unbelievably stupid. Then confused, then angry. She didn't come out of that one.

As if to bother her even more, Mrs. Hudson decided to play professor. Since she was recently allowed to leave her bed, she went downstairs and found herself in a cooking lesson, then in a cleaning-the-mess-you-made lesson; sewing, washing clothes, more knitting and some basic baby caring.

Somehow, Irene convinced her to go out of the house, and she got a shopping-for-baby-clothes lesson.

The housewife sensation intensified further, making her wonder just how much more she would have to endure.

That, though, wasn't the detonating factor.

Ten minutes past noon they walked into 221b Baker Street, and were greeted by a loud thump coming from upstairs. Ignoring Mrs. Hudson's warnings she ran as fast as her condition would let her; standing in the middle of her room was Holmes, beside him a broken chair and some broken glass. When he noticed her, he almost sighed in relief. Almost. "Where have you been?" his voice tight with concealed anger, she was a little scared.

"We went shopping". He examinated her as if looking for injuries, before going up to her crushing her to his chest.

"Next time, make sure you leave a note". His arms were wrapped tight around her, but not as tight as his mind was. His desperation, far from touching her, suffocated her.

Her mind started planning; she would not become a housewife, not even for him.

* * *

That night, he sat in a new chair, watching her from his usual spot at feet of her bed. She pretended not to know as she stared pensively out the window. Of course, he knew she was pretending, that's why he didn't falter.

Her coldness released his mind from the foolish thoughts that had taken over him. She had started to pretend again. He stopped trusting her. Again.

The next day, she was all smiles. They would have been just as beautiful, if they had been genuine.

He decided to follow her lead, and soon they were back on their routine. Maybe he wanted to stay a fool, maybe he wanted to please her, maybe he was just trying to keep her. It was a good thing nobody asked him why.

* * *

"So will you be back before dinner" Irene asked as she chewed on an apple.

"Yes, and I will bring Watson to check on you". She tried not to roll her eyes. With the usual kiss on her cheek, he left.

She would have never imagined how much she would actually need him.

Always in time, Watson and Holmes walked through the main door just before seven. But dinner was far from ready.

"Good lord! You've finally arrived" cried Mrs. Hudson, coming out of the kitchen. She was carefully carrying a bowl filled with steaming water.

"What's the matter, Mrs. Hudson?" asked Watson as he politely took the heavy bowl from her.

"The time has come".

A reflex thought crossed his head. _I'm going to be a father._ He flinched as he mentally slapped himself.

He was glad nobody else heard that. It would be the first time in his life he felt embarrassed.

When did his thoughts become so foolish?

Attempting to let it go unnoticed, he changed it to _she's finally here._

Cleo. That was all she should be to him.

* * *

About the question, I didn't decide, I forgot to ask =P, so it's still open (until I write next chapter)

Did I tell you how sorry I am for taking so long? Doesn't matter, I'll say it again. I'm sorry!!


	12. Theories

**WARNING: strong déjà vu sensation coming up. **Sorry for the delay!

I have to write a short novel for literature class, and you're never gonna guess what it has to be about…

Detectives. A crime, A case and all the boring (in my opinion) details of getting it solved. Exactly the part I care less for. Great. Frigging great.

It's due in 4 months, but I still have absolutely no clue (get the terrible joke?) as to what to do.

It's all I can think about, and it's really getting on my nerves.

I wonder how to write these two simultaneously without unconsciously mixing them up? AND that's not even an option, it would be plagiary to Arthur Donan Coyle and that would mean failing and going to summer school.

Really, I haven't been able to focus on this for two weeks! Stupid school.

**I guessed you would rather have at least a little than nothing at all… so here it is**

* * *

Holmes wasn't sure he could handle it.

Her flushed face and blood curling screams, his stomach turned uncomfortably.

"I need you to stay calm and breathe" commanded Watson in his medical voice. "Push only when I tell you to" she nodded weakly. "Holmes, if you are not going to make yourself useful, I rather have you wait outside" he snapped, noticing how he was just standing in the middle of the room staring off into the distance.

Holmes swallowed hard, "What do you need me to do?" he managed to whisper, Irene didn't seem to register they were even there.

Watson was biting his lips together as he evaluated Holmes' helpfulness in this very particular subject. "Hold her hand". Holmes frowned at him. "Hold her hand, stand by her side, wipe her forehead… Tell her she's doing well, tell her it will be over soon" he explained softly "Support her".

Watson couldn't get over the thrill of having Holmes do as he was asked

* * *

"Just one more time" he murmured against her sweaty forehead.

"I can't! I can't, I can't..." she chanted. Her breathing was raged and her hair was sticking to her sweat-covered face.

"Yes, you can" he tried to make her look at him, but she kept twisting her head away. "It's almost over" she kept shaking her head no. "One more time and you will be able to hold her". She finally turned to him.

"Him" she tried (without success) to glare.

Holmes chuckled. "One more time and you can prove me wrong" he challenged with a soft smile.

"Alright" she whined, gripping his hand until her knuckles went white.

A soft whimper was heard, before it exploded into loud cries. Everyone in the room smiled.

"You did very well" whispered Holmes as he kissed Irene's forehead again.

"And the winner is..." Watson made a dramatic stop "Holmes" he announced amusedly. Said winner's head snapped up.

"Really?" he asked bewildered. Irene weakly raised an eyebrow at him "I mean... Naturally! I'm always right" he tried to sound confident but his shock was evident.

Watson shook his head as he attempted not to laugh. He and Mrs. Hudson were standing by the crib, and she had just wrapped the baby in a pink blanket. "We're lucky Mary sided up with you, Holmes. Otherwise she would have to wear a blue blanket". Watson motioned for his friend to approach them. Holmes turned to Irene and kissed her hand before letting it go, then he hesitantly went to stand by them.

Watson happily tried to hand him the baby, and Holmes stood there looking at him like he had grown a second head. "Come now, Ol' chap! Don't be a coward!"

He gulped and extended his arms "What if I drop her?"

"Oh, You won't!" Watson felt a little guilty for enjoying so much his friend's distress.

His expression was concentrated, like he was trying to glue together a porcelain vase, as he carefully accommodated her in his arms. "Look at her" he whispered in awe. "Aren't you a pretty little thing..."

"Don't monopolize her, Holmes. I'm sure Irene wants to see her too". But as Watson turned to her he got a sinking feeling in his gut. Something was off. Any normal mother would be reaching out, begging to hold her newborn baby even when she could barely keep her eyes open.

Irene Adler had her head turned to the window.

In his mind's eye, Watson saw a brief flashback of Holmes mentioning how she always stared out the window. He hadn't made much of it, knowing his friend's tendency to obsess over her.

"Dear, would you like to take a look at her?" asked Mrs. Hudson kindly, but Irene didn't even look her way.

"I'm tired, I want to sleep" her voice was flat, but Watson noticed that she didn't seem to be finding it difficult to stay awake.

"Silly me, Of course you are!" she exclaimed "Mr. Holmes, we should take the little bundle of joy to your room so Miss Adler can rest properly". It came out like an order, but Holmes was too engrossed to take offense.

He was too engrossed to notice her long, wistful sigh. And he most certainly didn't register Watson's hesitation as he said goodbye to Irene.

He even forgot to kiss her forehead goodnight.

The door closed after them, but nothing changed. She just kept staring at the raindrops falling on the glass.

* * *

"Mr. Holmes, She needs feeding!" Mrs. Hudson kept trying to pry her away from him, but he wouldn't release her.

"Just give me a moment, Nanny!"

"I already gave you to many!". She pursued him around the room but he managed to walk with his back to her.

"Holmes!"

Said person stopped his wanderings, turning to see Watson with an amused smile forming in his face. Watson rarely lost his temper. "Dear friend, I must insist that you calm down" he was trying to sound angry "You wouldn't want the little angel…" he got a little sidetracked looking at her, before he snapped out of it and raised his head again. "To think you're a grumpy man who's trying to scare her" he reprimanded, sounding like he was making him a huge favor.

Watson took a breath and ran a hand through his short hair. "Holmes, look at her". He frowned, but gladly did so. "Stop looking at how much she looks like Irene…" Holmes briefly glared at him "Notice that she's very small, smaller than a normal newborn because she shouldn't have been born today, and you know that". Holmes sighed sadly, knowing what was coming next. "I need… No, SHE needs you to hand her over to Mrs. Hudson so she can be fed".

With the smallest of pouts, Holmes handed her to Mrs. Hudson, who had a cocky smile spread across her wrinkled face. Holmes glared.

"Now, I need to speak with you. Outside" Watson's tone was firm, making Holmes stop himself from making a smart remark. He followed Watson out the door, stopping every few seconds to glare over his shoulder at Mrs. Hudson. "Do you remember telling me that Irene stared out her window a lot?"

"Yes, and I remember you ignoring me"

"Quit being smart and listen to me, this is important". Holmes eyed him worriedly, nodding for him to carry on. "What were your views on that subject, if you could be as kind as to repeat them?"

"Well, I only mentioned that it seemed odd. Why the sudden interest?"

"Holmes, it is more than odd for her to be staring out a window when she just gave birth"

"She was?"

"Yes, and it also worries me a little that you wouldn't notice, but that's for later examination. Why in the world would she look at a window instead of holding her baby?!" he whisper-yelled.

Holmes sighed and turned his head to her door. "I have a few theories, but I want to keep them as that. Theories". Watson stared at him a little confused. "This is one mystery I'd rather not to unravel" he murmured.

"But you already did, didn't you?"

He only nodded. "I had never wished not to know something…"

"I guess you're finally paying the price of knowledge"

His mouth twisted a little, before he nodded again.

Watson dropped the subject. Holmes sulking stare fixed on her door made it all fall together. His observations, the smallest details he would constantly tell him about took on a stronger meaning. He wasn't only obsessed, he was desperate. Placing a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder, Watson led him back into the room.

* * *

Sorry for the gloominess, but this is finally falling on track. I think only a couple more difficult chapters before I get to where writing will be easier. Which SHOULD mean faster updates. Keyword: SHOULD.

Soo… This afternoon I casually decided to Google 'Irene Adler' and... **THERE ARE SEVERAL SHERLOCK-HOLMES-BASED NOVELS WHERE THEY ALWAYS HAVE A BOY!!! **That set my mind on girl. I was like "Ok, now there's just no way they'll have another boy. Definitely girl" 

Sorry to those who wanted otherwise (I expect strong disapproval from _Barbossa's Monkey _and_ Piratekid _;), but look at the bright side, now you can watch Holmes go all parental, chasing away all the boys that look at her. Don't know about you, but I find it very sweet.

Thanks For staying!! I love you for sticking up with me!


	13. Deals

Yay! **So i finally made you notice that there's something wrong with Irene!** Really, there's been something wrong with her for ages, and just now I made you notice. Watson is very helpful.

MOST of you are, well, wandering very far… I don't know whether to **be relieved or concerned**. I'm glad I haven't given it away, but I **don't want you to be like WTF** when you find out (Which you will next chapter anyways… gah! I have to stop typing!!

**Just trust my ****hatred for incomplete endings! **(stop talking NOW!! *pulling out my hair and slapping myself*)

* * *

"Mary mentioned how lovely she thought the name Charlotte is". All Watson got from Holmes was a huff. "Remember she made the pink blanket for her, she was the only one on your side". In Holmes mind that equaled little more than nothing.

"Then how about Marie Allison? it was my mother's name"

"Your mouth twisted at the corner, you're lying" he answered coldly. "And considering the similarity between Marie and Mary, I can only assume that Allison is your wife's middle name".

Watson chuckled. "Oh Holmes! How I've missed your hast yet truthful accusations"

* * *

"I think she looks like a Claire" mused Mrs. Hudson the next morning.

"Don't even bother, Nanny. She already has a name, she's had it for months now" answered Holmes quite rudely.

"How so? Miss Adler believed it was a boy"

"We made a deal. If a boy, her choice. If a girl, my call"

"I thought you said she wasn't your child" she murmured smugly.

Holmes sighed, trying to stop his mind from visiting the bizarre ways he had considered for Mrs. Hudson's corpse's disappearance. "She is not" he warned through clenched teeth.

"But you are going to marry her, aren't you?"

"Ah, I missed your sense of humor, Mrs. Hudson"

"Mr. Holmes, do you seriously intend to have a woman and her child live in your house without having married her? People are already gossiping, it won't be long before it becomes a scandal". She sounded a little angry.

Holmes rolled his eyes "I don't give a damn about gossip!"

"How can you be so selfish? Think about the Miss, think about her child! Have you seen how people treat children born out of wedlock?"

"You do have a point" he muttered unwillingly. "But that decision does not depend on me"

"Well, first of, it depends on whether you ask or not" she insisted.

"If it was really about that, she would have already hinted at it"

"Oh no! A respectable lady does no such thing!"

He chuckled. "Do you think, Mrs. Hudson, that a respectable lady would find herself in this situation?" he meant it as a compliment, but Mrs. Hudson, of course, didn't.

"How can you speak so rudely about her?" she chided in a low voice.

He sighed exasperatedly. "She must be awake by now". He confidently took the baby from her and walked out, slamming the door after him.

* * *

A young chamber's maid, a lady at a party and a soprano who was having an affair with a shy cellist, were the only pregnant women Irene had ever met.

Out of boredom, she had had a small conversation with the soprano.

"And how does it feel?"

"You can't describe it" she had answered in her heavy Italian accent.

"Doesn't it hurt?" Irene pointed at her stomach, shuddering at the thought of her own skin stretching so much.

"Like Hell!" but she didn't sound bitter.

"I have just decided I will never bear any children" her chin lifted up pridefully. The dark eyed soprano shrugged carelessly.

"This is not for everyone" Irene stared questioningly. "My mother abandoned me" she sounded bored. "Just like I heard yours did" Irene's little flinch didn't stop her. "And there are many more out there…" out of habit, she waved her hand around her "For them, nursing the reason of so much pain goes against their pride" she explained dismissively. "But I see it as an investment, someone to take care of me when I get old!"

Irene had chuckled in approval.

The young chamber's maid had a different point of view. "I don't believe you could possibly love someone so much" Irene had had the courtesy not to scoff out loud.

But the day Holmes played for her and the baby moved… well, she _still_ wasn't so sure there wasn't anyone she loved more than her baby…

She found now, that it was the lady at the party, the one complaining about everything she still had to go through, who she could absolutely agree with.

"I love him, but I'm not sure I want him" she complained, "This calmness doesn't suit me". She stared longingly at the waltzing couples. "I can't even dance with my husband anymore". Irene had felt sorry for her, so she kept her company for as long as she was able.

Irene wished she had been around to return the favor.

Her head snapped around when she heard the door open.

"Well, well, well. I believe somebody wants to meet you, Miss Adler" Holmes said, trying to sound cheery.

She sighed and sat up, knowing she couldn't put off the moment any longer.

"Have you seen her eyes?" She asked as she took the sleeping baby from him.

He was a little taken aback by the question. "Yes, they happen to be a dark shadow of blue" he said cautiously. She sighed resignedly, her lips pursing just a little. He deduced that that was the father's eye color.

"Well, you won. Claim your prize"

"Will you really let me name her Cleopatra?"

She sighed. "A deal's a deal". It irritated her a little that her daughter would be having such horrid name, but soon she wouldn't be having the right to complain…

"Splendid!" he beamed quite falsely. "Cleopatra…" he pursed his lips. "What about… the other name"

"Rachel? Yes, I suppose. I like it better"

"No, I reconsidered it. Cleopatra stands better alone" Her mouth twisted a little. There went the chance of her daughter having a normal name. "What I meant was… well, her last name" his voice dropped a little.

Her brows pulled together and she gazed at him questioningly. "What about it?" her tone was careful.

He bit his lips together, thinking about a way to imply it without really saying it. "I was wondering…". He took a moment to consider it… and he groaned. There really wasn't a way around it. He took a deep breath and braced himself. "I want to give her my last name" he flinched at how pompous those words sounded.

"Beg your pardon?" she managed to mumble.

"Irene, I can only imagine what your plans are" guilt briefly flashed in her eyes "but that life of yours… is just not right for an infant…" she said nothing.

"I believe that it would be for the best if…" he swallowed, running a hand through his messy hair.

"Sherlock Holmes, are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?" she tried to sound teasing, but her mind wasn't getting there fast enough.

"I am not asking you to marry me" he said firmly. "And be positive that I would never do so"

She wasn't exactly hurt, she knew him and she never expected him to propose, she also knew herself and she never wanted him to. But hearing it from his lips made the words sound harsher, and she felt the smallest sting in her chest.

"But you have options; you don't have to wander around the world like a vagabond…"

"And what does your last name have to do with all of that?". She was growing annoyed with the conversation; she just wanted him to be over with it.

"As I already explained, society does not and will never define you. I am most sure it will not define little Cleo… But unfortunately, you can't exterminate society. Or change its mind, in this case. So why make it even harder for her to fit into the atmosphere she will be living in?". He was pleased with how impersonal his motives sounded.

"That's true, Sherlock. But I keep failing to see how my daughter's life will be easier if she has your last name". She just wanted him out the room.

He sighed and rubbed his face with his hands. "Irene, if we can make society believe that she was dutifully born inside of wedlock…"

"Oh! I see now" she interrupted. "You want to pretend –in front of outsiders" she specified "That she is your daughter" she stopped to appreciate the picture, then she smiled and started chuckling "You do know that that would make me your false wife, right?" she shook her head amusedly. "Irene Holmes" she voiced, then broke into a fit of laughter.

He stared her with one of those 'it's not funny' glares. "I'm doing this for her. Even if she's only a day old I'm quite fond of her" he said seriously.

Her laughter died down into a soft smile, she kept shaking her head "One day and she has already stolen you away from me. She's a fast learner"

"Like Mother, like daughter" he agreed, a smirk threatening to leak through his solemn expression.

She sighed and looked down again. It was better like that. Little Cleo would be needing Sherlock's heart more than her anyways.

"You have cut yourself a deal. Her name will be Cleopatra Holmes and she shall be as much of your daughter as you decide"

Neither of them liked the way that came out. Obviously, neither of them addressed it out loud.

* * *

**THIS IS A REAL AUTHOR'S NOTE! NO RAMBLE ABOUT MY LIFE I SWEAR!**

I always end up doing something else and don't answer reviews, it's just the poor sense of time management I have. But there are like a million things I wanted to address from your reviews, **starting with how much I appreciate them.**

Then, the names thing… I just felt like the name arguments became old too fast, but I still want to mention them:

I made myself very clear about how much I loathe the name Cleopatra, but… well, it grew on me! (quoting _Jess__ :-) _Little **Cleo Holmes **(when I saw it like that in _Ginger Locks_ 's review I squealed :), and somewhere along the story it started to sound right, and now I just can't picture it any other way.

My original call was **Scarlett**, it's a strong name and it reminds me of Irene's reddish pink dress…

Note that I associate names to stuff very oddly:

**Charlotte **–_ Rosewood of Brazil__. _it was indeed 6-year-oldish, but you picked a name I already liked a lot… but something just didn't fit, I don't know what it is.

_Coco-Flavoured-T__iktaks_**:** (sorry, I think I'll keep calling you that, I always liked it a lot :-)

**Rachel **– I think is a beautiful name, (even if _Rouge Butterfly_ thinks otherwise!) and my second choice if I ever do change my name. PLUS, there's the Rachel McAdams thing… but I remembered I have cousin named like that and she was always breaking my crayons and pulling at my hair, so… no, sorry.

**Sophie** – It's an adorable name! I love it, but it sounds a little… well, weak. I needed a strong name.

**Marie, Claire****, Allison **– Rachel McAdams much? :P

**Emma** – ????

**Cynthia**– Another cousin, she gets sick a lot. Again, strong.

**Courtney** – Remember that cartoon about a redhead called Ginger? Remember the dumb blond? That's the first time I heard this name.

(Don't misunderstand me, I really do like the names, I have ALWAYS found them pretty (except Emma, idk why :p), I just get traumas and character-issues very easily)

**Sherlock**- _purplepeopleeater78__, __Rosewood of Brazil_. Would've been very awkward/sweet moment. But, well.. you see what happened…

**John** –_Piratekid11_ this was kind of my favorite option for a boy, you know, gotta soften Watson too._ BUT THEN AGAIN…_

I think those are all, but if I'm missing someone then please tell me, I care about all of you!

**Thanks for supporting me, ****really**. I'd be nowhere near chapter 13 without you.


	14. Draught

_Hey __there, I did not abandon this__! I'm a little afraid to say that I waited so long to write this chapter on purpose. Why would I do such hideous thing? Well, you see, I was waiting for my spring break, which started yesterday. As soon as the bell rang I was like "finally! Some Sherlock/Irene quality time! yay" _

_But y__ou'll never guess, though, my new scholar adventure. Thanks to my dear (note the sarcasm) classmates, our group is producing, directing, writing and acting a play to promote the reading of literature (guess which subject it is for) but myself and other 3 friends were selected to write the script (then we'll be doing most of the directing and some acting too…)._

_I proposed to make a scene from Scandal in Bohemia (did I mention that I read it and loved it? guess I will be reading the stories… someday) and they were like "yeah great idea" but it turns out they have no interest what-so-ever on the Sherlock Holmes universe, so I was left with writing the whole S. H. part by myself__, I thought "it can't be that hard" well, it turns out it is that hard. We're meeting for revision, tomorrow, at noon… _

_yes! I am picking fanfiction over that! I know I'll regret it when it's 11:55 and I'm like "Ohmygod! It's not done yet! What am I gonna do!" and I'll regret it when I apologize for not finishing it._

**But at least I'll give you the next chapter, it's worth it because of the ****104 amazing reviews!****! God I'm still in shock!! I'll never be able to stop thanking you!! **

* * *

For some days, he would find a way to keep up a conversation until late hours of the night, somehow managing to fall asleep beside her. Somehow, too, little Cleo was very akin to waking him up not long after.

And even when he would hardly get a wink of sleep, he thanked her greatly.

Routine was: Baby cries. Both wake up. Irene groans and covers her eyes with her arm. Sherlock gets up and stumbles over to the crib. Baby stops crying. Irene falls asleep again. Sherlock lulls baby back to sleep, lies back with Irene and makes the best of one hour of worried sleep.

Result: Irene is never awake while he sleeps.

Meaning, she doesn't have a moment alone, which assures him she won't be running out the door.

It seemed to be working during the first week.

"Don't you have any other matters to attend?" she accused as she fed a bottle to Cleo, which was a rare event in itself.

"Casually, I don't" he answered sharply. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the polluted air that filled his lungs every time he brought his pipe to his mouth.

"Watson recommended that you don't smoke in the same room she is in" Irene scolded.

"What a miracle! You finally care about your baby!" he exclaimed, knowing without opening his eyes the expression in Irene's face.

His constant comments never ceased hurting her, yet she knew he couldn't help himself. He was right after all.

She sighed. Another mouthful of pride to swallow. She wasn't sure how much longer she could wait.

"I will always care for her" she whispered.

His eyes shot open.

This was it. He sighed, running a hand over his tired face. Turning to look at her, he saw the look in her eyes as she stared at her innocent child. Goodbye. His stomach turned uncomfortably.

"I hope so" he tried to sound indifferent, but his voice broke the smallest bit at the end.

They both knew it, but none would say it aloud. He considered walking out the door and saving what little pride he had left.

Some instinct awakened, urging him to stop her.

"Well, she fell asleep" mumbled Irene as she went to put her on the crib.

The crib which Holmes was sitting beside.

He followed her every move with his eyes, drinking her in for the long draught.

When she passed by him, he grabbed her wrist. Nothing rough or demanding like other times. It was just a very light grip, and she turned to stare at him in complete awe.

His dark orbs fighted contact for a few seconds, before settling on her face, on her lips, her forehead, cheeks, nose and finally on her eyes.

He wouldn't say it, even when the words were at the tip of his tongue. So he tried to convey it in his gaze.

She was sincerely moved, she even smiled a little. But a look wasn't enough to hold her back.

At least, not in that point of her life.

She shook her head sweetly, apologetically. His hand fell.

He didn't dare look back as he closed the door. He didn't allow himself to wonder if maybe saying it would change anything. He walked back to his room, pipe in hand and thirsting badly for some strong narcotic.

Luckily, he found some cocaine, long forgotten inside of a drawer. "That's what I call a good friend" he thought.

* * *

He woke up to Cleo's cries.

Out of habit, he stood up. Then he waited for a few seconds… nothing changed. His blood went cold.

He carefully walked down the hall, really not wanting to reach his destination.

When he opened the door, he found that a tiny, insignificant piece of his brain was truly surprised. Shocked, even.

Ignoring the loud cries, he went to stand in front of the open wardrobe.

Everything was gone, everything but the silk kimonos.

Mrs. Hudson found him sitting on the floor, staring at them with a frightening gleam in his eyes.

"How can you sit there and let the baby starve!" she chided, before going to aid the crying baby. He didn't move.

It took her a few minutes to notice what should have been obvious.

"Mr. Holmes… Where is Miss Adler?" she asked cautiously. He didn't answer.

Knowing his temper, she decided to leave him alone. She could only assume what was happening.

Miss Adler left Mr. Holmes. She couldn't wrap her head around it.

* * *

Five in the morning!! Have some mercy and let me sleep. I have to get up in two hours to get the script done.

Do you hate me now? I think a lot will. I know I do.

I'll explain a lot next chapter.

And **Barbossa's monkey**… sometime's you can get what you want (and twins are not even necessary) I'm not saying anything else!

**Thanks for taking me beyond 100!!!**


	15. Soberness

AWw! I love you guys! You're the best reviewers in the World!! I don't know what I would've done without your support. Thank you for believing in me!

I have bad news about my script. At first it was very Holmes-y and my classmates started yawning. They still think Sherlock Holmes is boring (weirdos!) so I had to dumb it down a lot and add a lot of jokes about Holmes liking Irene for them to enjoy it. I feel terrible. It's not worthy of Sherlock Holmes. But for my own mental peace, I'm planning to redo it and make it more true to its original tale. I feel depressed

And I think I ought to say (I did say I'd explain some things this chapter) that Irene definitely does love and care for her baby, why would she leave her to Sherlock Holmes of all people if otherwise?

Now the thing is, I think of Irene as a, well, gypsy (for lack of a better word) a bohemian maybe. She's just not the kind to stay the same for long, and Cleo was tying her to a housewife sort of life.

This is sort of from Watson's point of view. Sort of.

I keep talking too much… AND SORRY FOR THE DELAY!!

* * *

"Dear doctor! Thank you so much for coming" sighed Mrs. Hudson when she opened the door for Watson.

"What's the matter?"

"He's sitting in Miss Irene's bedroom floor, staring at the wardrobe like he would like to burn it down!" she was truly terrified.

"What? Why?"

"He hasn't spoken a word, but Miss Irene is gone and so are most of her clothes…" she trailed off when she saw the realization forming in his blue eyes. Watson turned to look at were the room was even if he couldn't see it.

"Thank you for calling me, Mrs. Hudson. I will speak with him" without a second glance at her, he turned for the staircase, putting each foot in front of the other quite slowly, almost hesitantly.

He found the door open and he could see right away what Mrs. Hudson was talking about.

Elbow resting on his knee, chin resting in his hand and an intense glare pointed at the almost empty wardrobe.

"Holmes…"

"How fastly does silk burn? I don't think I have ever experimented on that" he mused casually.

Watson didn't think twice as he went to hang off the gowns, Holmes's gaze followed him as Watson opened the chest at the feet of the bed, thrusting the expensive fabric into it before shutting it and locking it.

Holmes didn't waste time glaring at Watson, instead he stared at the pocket in Watson's vest which he had shoved the key into.

Watson could almost hear Holmes' mind plotting the recovery. He sighed.

"I told Mary to expect me for supper. Please don't destroy yourself, Holmes" with that he walked out.

Watson wanted Holmes to get over this one without him, after all, he was a parent now… sort of. He had to take care of another life now, and that meant growing up. He only hoped Holmes' genius mind could understand that.

Mrs. Hudson stopped him at the doorway. "Dr. Watson, I really wouldn't like to leave the baby alone with Mr. Holmes" she spat out his name.

Watson considered it for a moment, Holmes wasn't in conditions to take care of an infant. "You're right, Mrs. Hudson. I'll take her to my house"

"Thank you, Doctor" she truly felt like hugging him.

John Watson and Little Cleo departed 221b Baker Street around six in the afternoon. Mary opened the door for them.

"Is she who I think she is?" she asked, a small smile forming in her lips

"Dear, let me introduce you to Cleopatra Holmes"

"Aw, she just as beautiful as her mother!" she gushed as she picked her up from her tiny carriage. "Are Holmes and Irene coming for dinner?" that's when she noticed that her husband was completely alone. "John, why have you brought her here without her mother?" her voice was full of suspicion.

"It's getting cold, let's go inside and I'll explain"

"John, what's happening?" she insisted as after he closed the door.

"Mary, I'm afraid we'll be taking care of her for a few days"

"Why? Is Irene alright?"

"We'd like to believe so" mumbled Watson as he hung his coat, Mary stared at him horrified. "Don't worry. Her comings and goings are absolutely voluntary; we're quite used to them."

"She… left?"

"Yes. Knowing Holmes, he will drink himself into oblivion then emerge as his usual self"

Mary gave a humorless chuckle "Is he going to keep her?". Somehow, she felt like she was talking about a dog.

"I'd like to think he will, but for the mean time… he needs to mourn properly"

"Alright, then" she sighed and took little Cleo upstairs. Watson stared after her, smiling as he pictured her holding _their_ child. 'One day' he thought as he followed her.

* * *

The next day, he went to visit Holmes early in the morning. Mrs. Hudson wasn't there yet, so he had to use his key to open the door. The house was quiet, so quiet that his own footsteps startled him as he went upstairs. He found the door to his old room still open, but surprisingly, Holmes wasn't there anymore. More surprising, was that the chest with Irene's clothes was perfectly closed, just as he left it.

Watson stalked to Holmes's room, pounding on the door. He got no response. As he turned the knob, he imagined his friend passed out on the floor.

For the third time in the past five minutes, his friend surprised him. Holmes was properly lying under the covers of his bed, staring at his ceiling. Watson could see this because of the light streaming into the room through the widely open curtains.

"You seem to be taking it well"

Holmes scoffed without looking his way. "Things are not always what they seem; you should know that better than anyone, Doctor". Sighing, he sat up on the bed, rubbing his face with his hands. "I didn't touch the cocaine, nor the heroin, not even the alcohol, I swear"

"Well, I'm… impressed, Holmes" Just as the words left his mouth, he noticed the photograph. Her photograph. Laying on the floor, surrounded by broken glass. He made his way to pick it up, but Holmes beat him to it.

Holmes stared at it for a moment, his expression unreadable. He sighed as he closed his fist around it, wrinkling it furiously. "Its next parade is that candle" he pointed at the still burning candle in his night stand.

"Allow me" whispered Watson as he took it from him. But instead of fulfilling Holmes wishes, he shoved it into his pocket. "You'll regret it one day"

Desperate, Holmes whipped around and started destroying everything in his way. "That bloody woman!" he yelled as he smashed yet another chair to the ground. He soon crumpled to the floor, grabbing his head between his hands. "She can leave me as many times as she likes, but why did she have to take her?"

Watson's eyes were bugging out of their sockets, especially after his last sentence. "What are you saying?" he murmured as he gulped.

"She came back overnight and took her. I didn't hear her but Cleo is not in the house"

Watson sighed and slapped his forehead. He really felt like bumping his head on the wall. "Holmes…"

"I knew I was being a fool for thinking she would stay, but I never imagined…"

"Holmes, she…"

"I thought she would leave her with me…"

"Holmes, you are…"

"Don't tell me I'm irresponsible, Watson. I can change! I could have been a good father!"

"Holmes! Listen to me, for Christ sake! She did not take Cleo, I took her!"

Holmes stared at him with wide eyes, before going up to Watson and grabbing him by the lapels of his coat. "Give her back to me, Watson". Even though Holmes was noticeably shorter than him, Watson felt intimidated by the sadistic gleam in his eyes.

"Holmes, you need to calm down…"

"I will NOT calm down! Where is she?!" That was when Watson noticed the slight dilatation in Holmes' pupils.

"You lied! You are drugged!" he yelled as he pried Holmes' hands away, now he was furious too. "What kind of Doctor would I be if I left a child in the hands of a drug addict?"

"Watson, even drugged I'm better capacitated to take care of her than anyone"

"Holmes, you know that's not true. I will not bring her back until I see that you're disintoxicated"

He turned to leave, but Holmes wasn't giving up that easily. "Watson, give me my daughter back!"

"She is not even your real daughter, Holmes!" he yelled "You. Are. Not. Her. Father"

"According to the law, I am. She is already registered as Cleopatra Holmes, daughter of Sherlock Holmes and wife Irene Holmes, born December 4th 1890 in London, England…"

"Irene Holmes?! You lied to the government?! What will Irene have to say about that?"

"She agreed to it. I finished the false marriage certificate just before the notary arrived, four days ago"

Watson stopped and stared at him in awe "You really do want her, don't you?"

"Against all odds, but yes. I want little Cleo back" Watson stared at him uneasily. "I hadn't even touched the heroin until I discovered she wasn't here. You can register the room and throw away everything you believe is harmful to my health. I won't be needing it anymore"

Watson sighed in rendition. "Alright, but if I ever find you lying on the floor I will take her out of here immediately". With a shake of hands, he started to rummage through Holmes' drawers, finding in total seven syringes with heroin, half a pound of cocaine distributed in five small jars all around the room. Two bottles of wine, one of whisky and three of beer. "Holmes, a quarter of this would be enough to kill you!"

"Do not fret, Doctor. This is just what I accumulated this past months"

"You consume all of this in months? This is more than what you should ingest in two years!"

"Let's not dwell in the past, Watson. I have a lifetime of soberness to redeem myself" he tried to smile, but it wasn't a very happy thought.

"You better be speaking seriously" warned Watson. "I have an appointment with a patient in twenty minutes. I'll bring Cleo sometime around noon. Clean up this mess, or else…"

"I will, mother hen. No need to be so harsh". Watson decided to leave before he could change his mind.

* * *

thanks for reading!


	16. Camellias and Violets

So the play opens this Friday, we had less than a month to set everything up. We're working non-stop.

I'm playing the red queen for an Alice in Wonderland scene, but the Sherlock Holmes part is nowhere near ready because nobody wants to listen to me… they think it's boring! I don't get it! I really don't! but what can I do? My Sherlock Holmes wants to wear the typical attire that isn't even accurate to the books -Remember George? My violinist friend who I keep mentioning way more than I should?- he was my first and only option.

Then, out of instinct, I really wanted to be Irene, but ten seconds before I could say it, I had this brilliant idea. There's this love story going on, my friend Yaya has been in love with George for 4 years, and it's obvious that he's in love with her too, they're just too blind to see it! (Cliché much?) So I decided to play matchmaker and I gave Irene to Yaya. We were practicing the other day and I said "Here's the thing. George, you're in love with Yaya" they both went redder than tomatoes! It's so much fun cause they're soo uncomfortable around each other now! I just hope they get together soon, I really can't wait, I might just go crazy…

Sorry… now, I don't really have time to pay this proper attention, so today's chapter was _'EYESviolet'_ idea. I just wrote it. Hopefully after Friday I'll be able to concentrate.

* * *

"And that, my dear, is a horse, an animal used to move those giant black boxes all around the town, and inside those black boxes there is people... Yes, people! Believe it my child, for you will, one day, be one of those people inside black boxes, which are called "carriages" ... Yes! Because they "carry" people!" Holmes stood in front of his window, Cleo nestled in his arms as he pointed out everything there was to see outside, in the unusually crowded Baker Street. "See, Watson? She doesn't need to be my biological daughter, I will teach her everything I know and she will inherit the family business!"

"Holmes, you don't have a business! This house isn't even yours!"

"I wasn't speaking about material possessions. I meant deduction skills, Watson, the key to knowledge!"

"Holmes" He explained in a careful voice "she was born two weeks ago"

"Two precious weeks wasted already! I don't want her to fall behind"

"She can't even understand what you're saying!"

"Doesn't matter! I'll repeat myself as many times as it is necessary"

Watson heaved a sigh and slapped his forehead

"I have a strong feeling you're going to spoil her very badly, Holmes."

"What was your first clue?" Holmes smiled as he pointed at a lady selling flowers out on the street. "There are roses, camellias, violets... which ones do you like the best?" there was silence "I guess she won't like flowers" he mumbled and Watson chuckled under his breath "It's a very convenient situation; she won't be fooled by any young lad courting her... No, she's smarter than that." Watson couldn't help laughing freely. "She will honor the name Holmes by solving crimes like her father. And she can never get married because no other man's last name is worthy of her" his chest puffed out proudly. Watson had never found Holmes funnier.

"Why don't you let her decide?"

Holmes frowned "Right, Watson. It is her decision" and with a sigh he added "I just hope she will visit more often than her mother." He gave a humorless chuckle as he silently looked back to the window.

"You have fifteen years with her, more or less. Don't spend them worrying... Enjoy her"

"Watson, you often complain about how foreign my methods seem to you, how you can't understand the workings of my mind." Watson stared at him, a look hesitant confusion gracing his features "But I have to say, my dear friend, that the feeling is mutual"

By the time the meaning of Holmes' words sank in Watson's mind, Holmes was already explaining why birds tended to eat bread instead of fruits. Watson could have never mistaken Holmes' words, yet he decided to play oblivious, just for the fun of having Holmes say it.

"I don't understand what you mean." He tried not to smile

"You don't understand how I deduce that the last patient you visited today had a very bad cough, just like I don't understand how you know what I have to do with the next fifteen years of my life. I never plan further than next week, how am I supposed to plan a lifetime?... It's a good thing I have you, Watson, to solve that mystery"

Watson smiled, pleased with Holmes' words.

Holmes returned to explaining the world to Cleo, who limited herself to wondering what the funny man with the soothing voice was saying.

* * *

Thanks for reading and wish me luck for Friday!


	17. The Dove

Ahg, I've been a lazy writer! I literally moped around for these past few weeks since the play turned out to be the biggest and most heart-crushing disaster of my life.

I don't even want to ramble about it, that's weird enough.

Thanks to _girlwithwings329_ for the amazing idea of giving George and Adyari (did I ever mention that 'Yaya' is just her nickname?) a couple name. I told my friend Joseph (who is my matchmaking soulmate) about it and he came up with the perfect couple name: Georgari.

I love the way we can annoy the hell out of her all the time. Her uneasiness heals my wounded heart and helps me move on… *sigh*

* * *

"You do know what day today is, don't you, Mrs. Hudson?" there was a sarcastic note in his voice.

Mrs. Hudson gave him a pointed look and waited. "Today is December the fourth, Cleopatra's birthday"

She gasped and brought a hand to cover her mouth. "Dear lord! I absolutely forgot…"

"Of course you did"

She decided to ignore that. "Has it really been a year already? Time does fly by, it feels like just yesterday"

"Speak for yourself, Nanny" he answered in a quiet voice as he tried to concentrate on the newspaper. It certainly felt like more than a year to him. A decade perhaps. There was a constant clock ticking away inside of his brain, it always seemed to tick slower after she left.

She was like a hurricane, turning his mind upside down and making him live in a rush of adrenaline, just like any other drug. Now that his cocaine and alcohol were gone and he was a man in rehabilitation, the only drug Watson hadn't forbidden him to use was, unfortunately, Irene Adler.

Problem was, she was harder to obtain than any previous drug, he only got a small dose every few years. This year's dose didn't seem to be enough for him.

_That morning h__e woke up to a smooth, unwavering sound. _

_Sometime__, as his mind was released from the grasp of sleep, he registered it to be a singing voice. A singing female voice, a very deep female voice…_

"_Contralto" he murmured mechanically without opening his eyes. _

_During the few seconds it took for the pieces to fall together, the sound was by replaced by hurried footsteps._

_By the time he stood up the only sound was the slamming front door._

_Without caring to disguise, he rushed downstairs and threw the door open, after stopping to sniff the cold winter air, which led him to his right, he took off running._

_Turning around the corner, he caught a glimpse of red. He stopped and watched from a distance as a man –wealthy, apparently- helped her inside of a carriage, before entering it himself._

_The carriage started going, and as it passed by him he heard her laughing at something the man was saying._

_Defeated and with a stomach-wrenching feeling of déjà vu, he made his way back to 221b Baker Street._

_Mrs. Hudson had just arrived and was preparing him breakfast. When she saw him come in she heaved a disapproving sigh and asked "Have you not spent the night here?"_

_He tiredly__ rubbed his cold face with his hands. "If I hadn't slept here, would I be wearing my nightclothes?" _

_Eying him suspiciously, she insisted "What were you doing outside at such an early hour?"_

_He sat at the table and opened the newspaper she had brought with her. "I saw a dove flying away, I thought I could catch her"_

"_Did you?" she asked conversationally._

"_She's quite a tease. Keeps coming back to my window, lets me come close to her and every time I think I've got her… she flies. I've been trying to catch her for years"_

"_How can you know she's the same one?"_

"_Oh, she's unmistakable. Pearl white feathers, eyes like emeralds, always brings with her the smell of a foreign place"_

_She chuckled affectionately and ventured out "And after all these years, don't you have a name for her?"_

"_Of course I do" _the woman..._ he thought. "But naturally, that's none of your business, Nanny" _

He was brought back from his reverie by Cleo's cries.

"I watch her during the nights" Holmes said without lifting his eyes from the newspaper.

Mrs. Hudson sighed and turned for the stairs.

After entering Watson's old room, "Hello, birthday girl!" she gushed as she picked her up. Cleo didn't stop crying.

She walked all around the room patting her back and trying to lull her back to sleep. It took her a while to notice the little white dress lying on the bed. It was hardly more than a feet long.

Picking it up with her free hand she looked at it closely. There were small pearls embroidered on the sleeves and neckline.

"Look at what your father bought you. It seems he's got a good taste after all" she kept talking to the baby as she dressed her with it.

Even with her pretty gift, Cleo couldn't seem to be happy enough to stop crying. Mrs. Hudson decided it was time to pass her over to Mr. Holmes.

Unsurprisingly, as soon as she was in Sherlock's arms she started laughing.

"Don't understand what you see in him" murmured Mrs. Hudson as she tried to go back to dishwashing.

"Where did this dress come from, Nanny?" asked Holmes before she could make it to the kitchen.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, don't be so modest" she answered sarcastically. Catching on her tone, Holmes gave her a perplexed look.

"I didn't give it to her"

"Well, it was lying on Dr. Watson's old bed, perhaps he…"

"Watson hasn't been here since last Thursday" he trailed of as he fingered the pearls on her sleeves.

Mrs. Hudson sighed and went back to the kitchen, not really caring where it came from.

"It seems your mother didn't forget your birthday" he mumbled, more to himself, as he stared off into the wall.

He didn't notice when Cleo discovered how to use her tiny hands to tear his newspaper apart.

* * *

Tell me; was that conversation as out of character as I thought it was? I mean, Holmes opening up to Mrs. Hudson? That doesn't seem too possible.

Now, I decided to cut it off here (even though I do have some more written) because I'm having a little conflict of ideas:

**Cleo's first word.** It can't be 'mamma' or 'daddy' because she's never really heard those words soo...

The sooner I solve the first word issue; the sooner next chapter will be up...

guess what? I want your help!


	18. Horse

I love you guys! Really, I'll never stop saying it! Your ideas hydrate my dry brain, seriously. Sometimes I can get so un-open-minded… just pretend that word exists.

I mean, seriously, my mind couldn't turn away from her saying "Howmes"

For the second time, this chapter is _EYESviolet_ idea.

* * *

"So I told him, 'Mister, there is no possible way your high top hat could've ran away with my waistcoat!'

"Why? He asked, and I slapped my forehead because it was just so obvious

"Because my waistcoat ran away with my left shoe last week!"

Holmes erupted in laughter at how unbelievably not funny Watson's joke was. He was kind enough to let him believe it was the other way around.

Mary giggled along and nodded gratefully at him across the table.

The Watsons were having dinner with Holmes because of Cleo's birthday; after all, they were her godparents. Holmes had been, naturally, thrilled to have Watson be her godfather, it made them even closer to brothers. Then he realized Mary would, inevitably, have to be her godmother. He made quite a fuss out off that thought.

_"I'd rather have Mrs. Hudson be her godmother" he had insisted. _

_"But Mrs. Hudson is not my wife, Holmes" he answered amusedly, not really bothered by his friend's dislike of his wife anymore._

_"We can always arrange that" he mumbled. Watson stared at him in shock._

_"Are you serious?" _

_"When am I not?"_

_"Holmes, it is not happening" he gave him one of the most intense glares he had ever given._

_"Alright, alright"_

_Holmes grudgingly swallowed his pride and attended the ceremony, managing not to glare at Mary… at least not inside of the church._

So the little birthday girl was sitting all by herself on the high chair her adoptive father had given her for her birthday, playing with a wooden white horse her godparents had gifted her.

Holmes, as always, was talking animatedly about Scotland Yard's latest unsolvable case, which had required Sherlock Holmes' assistance. A young lady's corpse –identified as Juliet Stephens- was found on the outskirts of town. She was beaten to death. According to Lestrade, it had to be a very tall and heavy young man. Most likely a crime of passion. Holmes had been surprised at Lestrade's near right conclusion; he only disagreed on one thing.

"I insisted it was impossible a human being could cause such injuries, but they wouldn't let me examine the body properly"

"So what are you planning to do?" asked Watson, leaning forwards on the table to listen better.

Mary was disgusted with their conversation, and no longer hungry, she took it upon herself to entertain Cleo.

"I was wondering if I could have your help on that matter…"

"Holmes, I'm not going to steal a corpse"

Holmes sighed, slouching his shoulders. "Very well, then"

"But if there's anything else I can do…" amended Watson, trying to humor him.

"You know, better than anyone, that sometimes speaking out all of the events can be very helpful"

"Then go ahead"

Mary sighed as Holmes launched into a detailed –too detailed for her liking- description of his case.

What Holmes found most interesting was a long, straight, dark brown hair found in the victim's body.

"Why is that surprising at all?" insisted Watson.

"Because the victim had blond curly hair"

"Oh, I see… couldn't it be another girl's hair"

"That's what I thought at first. But yesterday I visited her relatives, and none of them had the closest thing to brown hair, and the service wenches all had curly hair. Besides, it's too long of a hair, Watson. I wasn't allowed to measure its length, but I'd estimate it to be three feet long"

Watson's eyes widened immensely. "I have never seen anyone with such a long hair"

"Me neither, Watson. I'm at loss as to where it could possibly come from"

As Holmes and Watson both stared off into the distance, Mary –who had long ago blocked them out- was quietly making horse sounds and helping Cleo move her little white horse as if it was real horse.

Suddenly, Cleo turned to look at Holmes, her eyes bright with affection. Glancing back at Mary, as if asking her to look at him too, she gushed "Howrse", before looking back at Holmes.

"Holmes" Mary corrected.

"Howrse"

Watson's head whipped around to look at her. "Cleo!" he breathed. That's when Mary –finally- realized what was going on.

"Howrse!" Cleo insisted, now trying to reach out for Holmes.

"Exactly, Watson. A Horse! The hair comes from a horse's tail"

"Holmes..."

"You're a genius, my friend, a genius!"

"Holmes..."

"When the man chasing her caught up with her"

"Holmes, listen to..."

"The horse got too close to her, throwing her on the ground and..."

"Howrse!" Cleo cried over Holmes' explanation, successfully attracting his attention.

The room went silent for a moment.

"D-did…th-that…" Sherlock Holmes was stuttering for the first time in his life, as he stared perplexedly at the little girl in the white dress.

"Howrse!" she giggled and reached out for Holmes again.

"Aw, her first word!" gushed Mary, as Watson smiled widely.

"Howrse! Howrse!" She kept saying. Holmes was, for the first time too, speechless.

"Well, What were you saying, Holmes?" Watson laughed. Holmes couldn't take his eyes off his little girl.

"Howrse!"

"Yes. Horse, my dear" a smile finally broke through the amazement. "She said horse!" Holmes announced proudly. "Say it again, darling"

She was very obedient when it came to Holmes "Howrse!"

Holmes couldn't get enough of her little voice.

* * *

The case I invented is not really worthy of Sherlock Holmes.

Another short one, but I guessed you'd rather have an update than a long chapter.

**Virtual cookies and a virtual naked Sherlock handcuffed to a bed** to those who can tell me the five times something related to Taylor Swift appeared in this chapter. (it's ok if you only found one, you'll still get naked Sherlock…)

Sorry, I'm TS' biggest fan and I just couldn't help myself…


	19. The Philippines

God, it's been way too long, I should save you the bullets and kill myself... did that sound as weird as I think it did? Well, I'm not in such a bright mood lately.

Then again, I struggled a lot with this. Too many things in my head *sigh* I miss the time when I could seat down in front of the computer and do nothing but reading, writing, breathing and living through fictional characters.

Don't let my sad mood ruin this, just go ahead and read (and please enjoy!)

* * *

It was December the third; Watson had stopped by 221b Baker Street to inform Holmes of his latest, most brilliant idea.

"I want to bring Gladstone tomorrow for Cleo's birthday. I think she's is old enough to play with him"

Holmes, of course, disagreed profoundly, trying not to shudder as he had a flashback of the day Watson had brought Gladstone back for the first time in so many years. The little creature destroyed everything in his way, but a few broken vases meant nothing to Sherlock, what almost gave him a heart attack was Gladstone licking Cleo's face. Watson explained that it was absolutely harmless, but Holmes wasn't going to have Gladstone's sharp teeth so close his daughter's face.

"I don't think that is such a great idea" he said as politely as he could.

"I promise he will behave" Holmes wasn't buying that. "If he doesn't then I won't dare bring him to this house again" However, he did believe Watson. With a defeated sigh, they shook hands. Then Watson apologized for having to leave so soon.

Holmes wasn't thrilled as he put little Cleo to sleep, then lazily making his way back to his room, he forgot what was bound to happen that night.

He woke up around midnight, having not slept well at all. He laid motionless and listened to his surroundings. It wasn't until he heard her voice coming from Cleo's room that he felt like bumping his head into a wall.

He made his way through the hallway very quietly, stopping outside the door to make sure he was not hallucinating.

"I know the sound of your footsteps by heart, Sherlock. Just come in" Came her voice from the other side of the door.

He obediently opened the door. "Hello, Miss Adler. Long time no see" He greeted with a fake smile.

"Very long, indeed" She went to sit in front of Cleo's crib.

"I must say I'm quite surprised to find you here. I thought you said London wasn't of your preference during winter"

"And you thought right, it isn't. But the occasion was worth the change of plans"

"Oh, so you remembered?"

"How could I not?" She paused as a more genuine smile graced her face. "Did she like the dress?"

"She seemed pretty comfortable with it" he answered "That was until Mrs. Hudson try to feed her mashed carrots" He paused as he lost himself on the memory of the huge orange stain on the little white dress. "It was ruined after that" Irene chuckled as she put a stray lock of curly hair behind Cleo's ear. "I couldn't quite place the provenience of the pearls, though. Were they from Indonesia? Australia, Perhaps?"

"Actually, they're from The Philippines" she corrected smugly "Shallow waters, snow-like sand. Have you ever been there, Sherlock?"

"Haven't had the pleasure" he said with another fake smile

"Well, maybe you should consider visiting. It truly is a lovely place"

"I've never been too fond of the intense sun"

There was an uncomfortable silence, and as Irene kept stroking Cleo's hair, Holmes noticed the golden band in Irene's left hand.

"How is the new one doing, is he any better than Godfrey Norton?" His arms were crossed as he relaxed against the door.

She scoffed, looking down at the ring and twisting it angrily in her finger. "He makes me miss Godfrey" she whispered in a sardonic voice. Holmes didn't have an answer for that one. She seemed to be considering taking it off, and after a while of staring at it hesitantly, she decided not to.

"How did her first birthday go?" said Irene, breaking the heavy silence.

Holmes sighed as he scrambled his head for something interesting to say "Well, she said her very first word that day"

"Really? Did she say Irene?" she gave him that flirtatious smile that always sent shivers down his spine. He had to blink a few times before he could respond.

"Why would she? I don't think she's ever heard that word in her life"

"What did she say, then?" she asked after a while in a much quieter voice.

"She said Horse" he didn't get any response from her. "I'm considering taking her to a few riding lessons when she's older" still nothing, Irene stared silently at her little angel, wondering how she would look in a riding suit.

"So... The Philippines?" He wondered out loud as he paced the room.

"Yes" she said, then a forcedly sweet smile blossomed in her face "Is there any chance of you leaving us alone?"

He returned the smile just as falsely. "Not a single one, darling"

She sighed and went back to admiring her daughter. Holmes kept pacing the room, pretending that the aroma of her Parisian perfume filling the air wasn't driving him insane.

"Don't take me seriously; I'm also here to see you"

"What for?"

"You still don't believe me when I say that I missed you"

"That, Miss Adler, has got to be the truest thing you've said in your life"

She smiled, satisfied with their typical argument. "Well, just so you know, I did miss you, Sherlock" she went to stand face to face with him "Did you miss me?" she asked, batting her eyelashes knowingly.

He stared, and stared, and after that, he stared at her some more. Why did she even have to ask? She knew the answer, but she always had to throw some salt on the wound. She had to see that defeated 'Yes, I missed you' look in his eyes, the little twist of his mouth as he refused to say it. She was cruel, he knew that. So why was it that time after time he kept falling on that same situation? Because he was an idiot, he knew that too.

"I didn't even notice you were gone" he answered, steeling himself for what he thought had to be the best performance of his existence.

She stared, confused at first, then a small chuckle escaped her lips "Good job! I almost believed you for a second, but it would've worked with anyone else"

"I'm not lying" he lied again.

She shook her head in amusement "Don't think I don't recognize that half-a-second long, little pout that you do"

"I'm not-"

"There it was again! You can lie to whoever you want, but not to me, Sherlock"

He was getting irritated, which didn't happen very often, and something in him snapped. "No, I can't lie to you" his gaze on her intensified, but in a different way, one that made her skin crawl. When she met his eyes, whatever it was that had snapped inside of him took control.

He had never kissed her. They had kissed a few times, but HE had never kissed HER. And as her fingers tangled passionately in his short, messy hair, he wondered why he had waited so long to do it.

One thing led to another and soon they found themselves stumbling over to Holmes' room, not without knocking off some paintings and expensive jars on the way. Once inside and with the door safely locked away, Irene reached for Holmes face with her left hand. He caught her wrist in that very particular manner that was already signature of him. She struggled to free it, but his grip was strong as he analyzed her hand. After some consideration, he raised his free hand to take the offending wedding band off her finger. Releasing her, he went to open his safe box, throwing the ring inside.

"Just making sure I get a souvenir from the occasion"

"And that you won't have to see it on my finger" she smiled, pleased with his little jealousy tantrum.

"Why hide it?" he wondered, kissing her again "We already established that I can't lie to you"

They didn't really speak after that.

* * *

I know, I had a little dance party while singing 'they kissed, they kissed'. And just like Holmes now I wonder, why did I wait so damn long to make him kiss her?

The rest is up to your imagination. Why? Because I have no idea what-so-ever as to how to describe (or even imagine) that scene. Though if anyone's interested on writing it ...

And yes, I am having Gladstone next chapter, I hope I do him justice!


	20. For The Old Times

**AAHHHH I have exactly nine hours to finish that novel I told you about on earlier chapters, at least 30 pages long. I have ten pages so far and I'm only at chapter 2. I'm sure I won't be getting any sleep tonight.**

**Well, I feel terrible that I haven't updated, mainly cause this chapter has been _almost_ done for two weeks, there were just some small details I haven't had time to revise. (I still don't have any time but I'm stealing some anyways). WOW, just realized it's chapter 20 already! oh my god!**

**See, I got myself in yet another little adventure, thank you so much Miss Elizabeth! (Note the sarcasm). ****Now, my beloved literature teacher has had me writing strictly in Spanish for the past month, which is the reason I'm a little dazed to be returning to English. Did I already say I should be writing a novel right now?**

**Because I just can't keep my mouth shut, let me tell you. She's going to publish a book with many short stories written by her students…**

**See where I'm going with this? Yes, I'm going to be a published author, I still can't get over it. Especially because the story she chose to publish is called "The Dove". Did you guess? Yes, it's inspired off Holmes' conversation with Mrs. Hudson about Irene flying away.**

**Now, before you rush to the nearest book store (yeah, sure!), let me tell you (in case you've never read my profile) that I live in Mexico, meaning "The dove" is actually "La Paloma" and it's written in Spanish all the way through. I'll translate it one day and post it here. One day after I finish Glowingly.**

**Oh god, excessively long author note! So sorry I keep rambling.**

**Now, you're gonna hate me. I hate myself for making you hate me, but I wouldn't do it if it wasn't absolutely necessary. Just make sure to read all the way through before you prepare the guns.**

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was very fond of surprises. Especially if these presented themselves in one of his cases. With his unusual talent, the thrill of the epiphany was pretty scarce, therefore making his day to day activities so boring and uninteresting that it literally caused him pain.

Yes, surprises were always welcome.

It wasn't until that chilly morning, March 22nd of 1888, that life threw at him a brand new type of surprise. A surprise he didn't quite like so much, but believing it was a once in a lifetime experience, he faced it with his head held high.

He had no idea of what fate had prepared for him… what _she_ had prepared for him.

Since that day, there was a certain type of surprises that he never again wanted to face. Irene Adler's surprises.

He had an alphabetical and chronological catalogue of her deceits as an avid reminder of what she was capable of doing to him.

As he laid naked under the covers of his bed and staring at the wooden ceiling, he wondered why he ever wasted his time analyzing her methods if he just wasn't going to learn the lesson.

He tried not to think about how… Temperamental? Thoughtless? Imbecile? He had been.

The morning sun came streaming through the windows, the busy street outside tried to remind him that the world kept spinning and that life still went on. He deliberately ignored it, deciding to drown in his sorrow for a little while.

He looked at the emptiness beside him, the cold sheets where her smell remained. He realized that he wasn't going to learn his lesson any time soon.

* * *

Around two o'clock, a snickering Mrs. Hudson opened the door to Mary and Watson.

Two year old Cleo was standing on the stair's fifth step as she slowly put her little foot on the lower step, then she proceeded to put her other foot down so she was standing fully on the fourth step.

And as she was doing this, Holmes was crouching down on the previous step, holding his arms out in case she tripped and rolled down the stairs.

Earlier that year, Cleo had taken her first steps… before falling flat on her face.

Holmes had decided she was not to try walking ever again.

_"Holmes, of course she has to fall a few times"_

_"I will not allow it"_

"_Why don't you just stand beside her, that way you can catch her if she trips"_

When he said that, Watson had no idea that Holmes would follow her around all the time for seven months.

Nor that Holmes would be almost having a heart attack when she tried to walk down the stairs all on her own.

"Holmes, enough already. She's two years old, she'll be fine without you" By the time Watson said this, Cleo was stepping down the very last step, successfully reaching the floor. Holmes breathed out a sigh of relief and stood up.

"Cleo!" greeted Watson, kneeling down to her level.

"Wawson!" she answered as she took off running towards her godfather, who caught her in his arms and lifted her up.

"That's a very pretty dress you are wearing, Cleo" complimented Mary as she touched the pearls embroidered all over the exotic fabric of her little baby pink kimono. "It reminds me of the ones Irene used to wear"

To say that the silence that followed was awkward would be an understatement.

Gladstone, who had been busy solving some... biological issues out on the front yard, decided it was a good time to make his presence known.

"Gladstone! Old friend, how nice to see you" said Sherlock as he briefly petted the dog's head. "Please, make yourselves at home. I will check if the tea is ready" with that he quickly disappeared inside the kitchen.

Watson gave Mary a pointed look, close to a glare. But of course Watson would never glare at his wife.

"Did she give it to her?" she whispered, looking down at her shoes.

"I believe so, where else could a dress like that come from?" he whispered too as he watched out for Holmes' return.

"I'm sorry"

"Don't worry, dear. You couldn't have known, I'm sure he understands. Just don't mention her again"

As they made their way to the living room, Mary decided not to ask why.

By that time Cleo had grown to have a headful of chocolate curls -which were always a difficult thing for Holmes look at, with them being so familiar- and they bounced prettily as she chased Gladstone all over the house.

While having tea, Holmes kept stealing glances at the pair, worrying that Gladstone might decide to take a bite of her hair. Or maybe she would trip over the long hem of that silly little dress her mother had picked. Or maybe Gladstone would star licking her face again... he didn't think he would stand it this time.

But much to Holmes' despair, Gladstone was behaving as properly as Watson had promised.

Now, passing on a slightly different subject, Watson had been concerned about Cleo's dress ever since he spotted her. He feared the worst for Irene's kimonos, supposedly safe in the chest at the feet of his old bed. Sometime around the evening he just couldn't stand the expectation anymore.

"Would you excuse me for a moment?" without waiting for an answer, Watson stood up and hurriedly made his way upstairs.

Both Holmes and Mary stared after him, perplexed.

Holmes relaxed back into his chair and putting on a small smile he asked "Well, Mary, When will you and Watson be having one of your own?" apparently trying to start a small conversation.

"We're not in a hurry. Our family will grow when the time is right" her voice was a little tight as she answered. She wasn't comfortable with the subject of not getting pregnant at her late twenties.

"Yes, I understand perfectly" he amended before taking a sip of his tea. "But tell me, dear, how long have you been married? Six years?" Sometimes he wondered what it was about bothering people with their most personal problems that he enjoyed so much. He hadn't found a suitable answer for that yet.

"How long had you known Irene when she knocked on your door pregnant?"

He should have learned from that lovely evening at the Royale that insulting Mary Morsten Watson would always end making a fool out of him.

"She didn't knock" he mumbled, trying not to glare at her for he knew he deserved that.

Holmes had a déjà vu when Cleo tripped over the hem of her silly dress and fell flat on her face. He just pinched the bridge of his nose, thinking that there were too many lessons he wasn't learning lately.

Only after having her godfather tell her she would be alright Cleo stopped crying. Watson told her she should rest for a while, so she went to sit by her father's feet, with Gladstone loyally by her side.

She would pet the dog's head, all too awkwardly and maybe not to pleasingly for him. But Gladstone, like his master, was a gentleman and if he felt any discomfort from the girl's actions he didn't show it

Not long after that, Holmes stood up and without a word went to the kitchen, returning not long after with a plate of water. "I'm sure dear Gladstone must be thirsty after so much running around" he explained, bending down to place the plate beside the dog. "For the old times, my good friend" he whispered, petting Gladstone's head.

That night, the Watsons left 221b Baker Street pretty annoyed, behind them a smirking Holmes admired the picture. A gentleman with an arm protectively wrapped around his wife's shoulders… and a poisoned dog under the other arm.

* * *

Another year went by, and it was the day before Cleo's third birthday. Sherlock sat at his desk's chair, mindlessly plucking the strings of his violin.

Midnight came around and found him the same. He heard her voice from the other room, but that night he couldn't find it in himself to go and meet with her.

So he waited, he just wanted her to leave already.

Obviously, the night wasn't going to play out like that, and some part of him knew he wasn't going to get rid of her that easily. Perhaps that was the reason why he could seat there, unfazed by her presence in the building.

It took a little longer than he expected, but eventually his door opened to reveal a smiling Irene Adler, humming absently as she made herself comfortable like it was her own bedroom.

Holmes examined her silently, out of habit. He couldn't believe he was seeing a new wedding band in her finger. "Is that from your new husband?"

"It's from the same one, actually. He gave me a new one after I told him I was robbed, which is sort of true"

"Two years? With the same man?"

"Almost three, Actually" his fingers started plucking faster.

"Did the dress survive this year?" she asked as she went to seat on his bed.

"Yes, the dress is in perfect conditions. However, she outgrew it already"

"Oh, what a shame" she said, slouching her shoulders dramatically. "I would've liked to see her on it"

Holmes plucked even faster as he restrained himself from making a sarcastic remark.

"How did last year's birthday go?"

"Hmm, she walked down the stairs all on her own" he finished the sentence with a long yawn before rubbing his face with his hand.

"I'm sure something more eventful happened"

"That was quite an event. You can't appreciate it because you weren't present"

She couldn't disagree with that. "You don't look so happy to see me" she asked in a small voice.

"That's because I'm not happy to see you"

"I wouldn't go that far. You missed me"

"I always do, you already knew that"

"Oh, and why did you miss me?" a sly smile started to form in her lips.

He sighed tiredly "I'm not in the mood for these games tonight"

"You're never in the mood" she whined flirtatiously, he just fixed her with a glare.

"Miss Adler" he grunted as he stood up from his chair "If you're not willing to let these games aside, then I'll have to ask you to leave"

"You were saying you missed me just a moment ago, why would you want me to leave so soon?"

"I though I wanted your company, but I realize now that I'm too exhausted. Another day, perhaps, when I'm on my element again, I might even return your insinuations"

"Very well, then" she stood up too, and shaking his hand in a busyness-like manner she added "Until next year, it is"

That did it.

He kissed her. Simple as that.

But true to his word, this year he wasn't so happy with her.

In a more than aggressive manner and without pulling his lips away from hers, he ripped the wedding ring off her finger, throwing it over his shoulder without looking back to see where it could have possibly landed. He just didn't care.

Her finger ached as she ran her hands over his back. Her husband had given her a smaller ring to make sure it wouldn't be stolen again. But she hardly noticed the skin layers that had peeled off, she had more important matters at hand. Like unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt. After failing two times in a row, she decided to just rip it off his body like he had ripped the ring off her finger.

It was like the old times. They were fighting for control over the other. This time, though, the fighting was purely physical. Irene worried -during half a second- that she'd have to explain where the bite marks on her neck came from, and Sherlock vaguely acknowledged the scratches in his back.

All in all, they had always enjoyed fighting with each other.

* * *

Quite the long one, huh?

Don't hate me. We're not really that far from the end.

It might feel like a long time because of my irregular and far spaced updates, but my summer vacation starts June 9th, so hold on till then, please!

Now, I had some major trouble with Gladstone, I mean it with love but… what does he do? He just farts and gets killed by Holmes. I did the best I could but I didn't really have that much to work with. Then again, let me repeat that I say it with all the love existent on earth!}

**NEWS FLASH!** please, pretty please, I beg you to go to my profile and vote for the word you like the most cause in my head it's a tie.

I know it's weird, but you'll find out next chapter and it would really help me a lot! **it's extremely important. **(for me at least)


	21. It's A Sad Situation

WOW, just, wow. 3,083 words before the author note. I can't believe it.

I'm surprisingly happy with this one. You see, this was _almost_ done for soo long... i mean i had all this jagged pieces scattered all over the place, the hardest part was probably sewing them together. and now that it's complete i'm just like... WOW.

anyway, i hope you really enjoy it cause it's the longest chapter yet.

**Sorry seems to be the hardest word -Elton John**. i just couldn't stop think about this song while setting this whole thing together, i thought the words were way too accurate and i couldn't resist adding them.

**But, i mean, it's not like it's a songfic, they're barely there. You can pretty much ignore them if you rather!**

* * *

_And it's sad, __so sad, it's a sad sad situation and it's getting more and more absurd. __And it's sad, oh so sad, why can't we talk it over?..._

Time slowed down with her in his arms, something he was secretly grateful for.

The few hours of darkness left stretched on for eternity. Her back firmly pressed against his chest and his arms tightly bound around her, both refusing to be the first one to fall asleep, none of them daring to talk just in case the other one was nodding off.

He would stare at her exposed back, so perfectly creamy and alluring, inviting him to caress it with his calloused fingers. He would stare at the back of her head, wishing to bury his nose into her raven curls. And he would stare at her neck, feeling tempted to nestle his breath against it… that would drive her insane, he was sure.

But he couldn't, those little actions would be enough to ease his tortured mind, relax him. He couldn't fall asleep, he couldn't wake up and find her gone again. He wasn't having it.

Somehow she had managed to stay perfectly still, slowing her breathing so precisely that he almost believed she had fallen asleep. Almost, because she didn't feel strong enough to close her eyes. She would stare straight ahead, unblinkingly, concentrating on the tension between them, savouring the ghost of his touch, the taste of his lips still fresh in her mouth, and the thrill of adrenaline running down her spine every time she remembered he was right behind her.

Then the first rays of sunlight managed to appear through the drawn drapes.

"Did you know I never go to the same place twice?"

"That, my dear, is as much of a lie as everything you say"

"No, it's the truth"

"Then what are you doing here?"

"That's my point. I have been here more than two times"

He rolled his eyes.

"It isn't necessary for you to be here so many times, you could be here only one last time…" he trailed off, finally allowing himself to play with a stray lock of curly hair that had fallen over her cheek.

"You said you were tired of games"

"That's exactly what I'm saying. There's no need for games"

"Then just say it"

He gave up and rested his chin on her shoulder. "Why do you have to keep leaving?"

She bit her lower lip, avoiding a smile. "That's not what you want to know". She sensed the frown taking over his features even without turning her head. "You're asking the wrong question"

"What shall I ask, then?"

"Think about it little bit"

"I thought we had an agreement. No more games, Miss Adler"

"There was never an agreement, not on my side at least. And you _are_ playing a game, 'Mr. Holmes', why shouldn't I play along?"

"I'll drop that game if you tell me what the right question is"

"Bargaining? I'm disappointed, Mr. Holmes. Besides, I don't mind playing games. In fact, I quite like it when you call me 'Miss Adler', makes me feel… unique. Miss Adler doesn't belong to anyone… yet she exists to only one man". She closed her eyes. "And that's the closest I'll ever be to being yours" she added in a raw whisper.

His grip on her waist tightened further as he swallowed back the question that was burning on his tongue, _why _can't_ you be mine?_ And decided to exchange it for a less corrosive one. "Can you tell me the right question now?"

"A little desperate, are we, Mr. Holmes?". She would have extended his suffering but her skin was starting to tingle underneath his constant gaze. "Well, why do you think I keep coming back?"

He smiled. "I have some theories" he murmured, nuzzling her neck tenderly. A contented sigh escaped her swollen lips as she relaxed against him, allowing herself to enjoy the gesture.

"You have to let me go" she said after a while, still not opening her eyes.

"What if I don't want to?" he breathed in her ear, making her shudder.

"Then we will have to do this the hard way"

He bit his lips together. "Then at least wait until I'm unconscious, like you always do"

"You wouldn't sleep again if I agreed to that"

He felt pathetic to admit that she was right. With a dreary sigh he kissed the back of her neck, his lips lingering on her skin just a few seconds more than necessary, and loosened his grip on her waist.

She was quick to stand up and shameless as always to not drag the sheet along with her. "Mmm… I can't see anything" she mumbled, then she opened the curtains and he had to close his eyes, not so much for the blinding light, but because of her naked figure walking gracefully all over the place. She loved to torture him. The light had immediately revealed a black lacy stocking lying over the teapot on a little table near the window. "Now where did my other stocking land?" she wondered out loud as she scanned the room.

"It must be somewhere at the east of the room" he offered, turning his head to look at the east window, where said stocking hung carelessly over the terrestrial globe.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, hurrying to retrieve it, then as she hummed an unfamiliar tone, she sat on the bed and started on the very eye-catching task of putting those indecent stockings back on.

He had to swallow hard before he could use his voice. "Answer me just one thing, what are you going to do when she starts remembering your visits? Will you be able to leave her then?"

"I don't know" she mumbled, standing up as she detected another item of clothing.

"You don't know if you'll be able to leave her or you don't know what you're going to do?"

"I've already answered to one thing, it's not my fault that you can't identify which thing I answered to"

He chuckled

"Do you mind?" she innocently asked, holding up the wine red corset she had found dangerously close to the fireplace. He sighed and sat at the edge of the bed, she conveniently sat between his legs and handed him the corset.

He reaffirmed his earlier discovery. She loved to torture him.

But when she wanted to play like that, he never stayed behind.

Of course Sherlock Holmes knew how to tie up a corset, that didn't mean he couldn't ask every thirty seconds if he was doing well, after all, he need a suitable excuse to whisper in her ear. Before he realized he was kissing her neck again, missing out on several grommets and having to redo most of the accomplished work. Not that either of them minded.

It could have easily taken more than an hour for him to be finished. In fact, it did.

"I really have to go now. It must be somewhere around ten" she explained as she quickly finished her redressing. He watched her helplessly, following her with his eyes as she desperately rummaged through a pile of papers.

"What do you want?" he asked, suspicious.

"The ring" she answered simply. She must have been truly preoccupied because she hadn't even noticed the accusation in his voice.

But before he could see past the foggy veil of red that settled over his vision at the mention of the infamous object, she found it.

She let out a small sigh of relief and slipped it on her finger, wincing just a little as it made contact with her damaged skin. Without even a sigh of his own, Holmes let his head fall back to the pillows.

She was on a rush, and a soon as everything was back on its proper place she made a beeline for the door. She almost didn't notice him, staring at the now very familiar ceiling. She sighed and went to stand at the foot of the bed.

"I'll see you next year" it came out more like a question. He nodded. Her mouth twisted just a little. "I'll miss you" she added.

By the time his brain processed the words, she was gone.

* * *

He doesn't really know what he would do if he had her around all the time. Maybe they would argue, yell, and if she ever slapped him he was sure something very bad would ensue. Something told him that even if they spent their days fighting, by midnight they would be biting, scratching and kissing, waking up to each other again.

But wondering was something he had no time for. He had a little girl to take care of, he had money to earn, he had a violin to play and a landlady to hate. Every now and then he would have a friend to attend, or a Watson to bicker with, sometimes even a Mary to molest and a Gladstone to poison.

Late at night, though, with Cleo sleeping peacefully in the continuous room, as he lays in the dark he allows himself to stare out the window and wait.

Wait for a miracle, wait for a fight, wait for a kiss, wait for a chance. Wait for the day he can finally stop waiting.

He sighs, realizing that he's much more tired than he thought. He rubs his face and wallows in self pity, feeling pathetic to see that she never fails to make an idiot out of him, even when she's not even in the same town.

Sometimes he gets angry, he gets furious at himself for letting her have such an effect on him, sometimes he destroys everything within his reach but usually he takes it off on those poor four strings.

He used to be very careful with the Stradivarius, the one time Mrs. Hudson touched it he practically tackled her in order to retrieve it. But in the last years… well, he's lost count of how many strings he's broken, how many new scratches it has received, how many times he's abruptly dropped it to the floor in frustration.

And he no longer plays, he plucks. Watson would complain about how Holmes only stopped playing loud and clear at three in the morning after he left, and he would outspokenly wish for him to have plucked more often when he lived in Baker Street. Holmes had long ago learned to ignore those comments.

"Well, then. Why are you not delighting your daughter with your beautiful music?"

That got to him. He would sit little Cleo in his bedroom's floor and put on a whole Violin concerto for her. Three-year-old Cleo would either clap or cover her ears depending on how high the notes Holmes played were.

"She seems to prefer lower notes" he commented to Watson one day.

"That could be a result of her mother's tessitura. Has Miss Adler ever sung to her?"

"She gives her a small concert every year in her birthday" Holmes' forcedly cold expression was enough for Watson to know not to ask further.

But when Cleo wasn't around, he couldn't find it in himself to play. He honestly tried, but he would end up throwing the bow at the wall in front of him. Like many things, he wasn't about to accept it, but he missed _wanting_ to play.

One night, as he stared, he caught himself wanting something he was never even close to liking. He wanted to be an ordinary man like Watson. A man who doesn't question, a man who doesn't think. A man who enjoys life to its fullest.

In the brief moments he allowed his mind to embrace the concept, he imagined himself coming home to a lovely woman who would have dinner ready, they would have a conversation about their respective activities, maybe after some years of happy marriage children would also be a topic of daily conversation. After dinner they would go to bed, perhaps make love or just lay in each other's arms until they fell asleep.

Did he really want that? Maybe. It certainly would be much easier, natural as breathing.

This lovely woman, he could almost picture her. He knew she would have brown hair, most likely brown eyes too. She would be fair skinned, petite and fragile like a porcelain doll. She would smile and be polite to the world. She would sit at home and knit or cook or sing lullabies in an effortlessly high-pitched voice, a voice that would easily match his violin's finest notes, a sweet soprano. A truly lovely woman.

Did he _really_ want that? Maybe… at least he would have an encaged little bird instead of a dove flying out the window all the time.

_Really?_ He thought. _Are you being serious?_ He shook his head a little too violently, finally coming to his senses.

Of course he didn't want something as ridiculous as that. He mentally punished himself for hours on end for ever considering such a thing. For accepting he ever considered such a thing.

But that was just how far her absence was affecting him.

He used to be perfectly fine without her. A short visit every few years used to be a lot more than enough. What had changed?

The answer was running around the house in a jade green, pearl embroidered little kimono, with chocolate curls bouncing off her small shoulders and the prettiest, most perfect nose on earth…

Cleo kept growing, he couldn't really stop that, and each day she would only resemble her mother even more, he couldn't stop that either. He wished he could.

* * *

Nothing has changed. Not a single thing. He still waits, violin in hand. She still has a ring in her finger. They still kiss, they still fight. Nothing has changed. That's the problem. The same insincere promise hidden behind her kisses, hanging in the thick air, then raining upon him when he is alone again.

That's how it felt to Holmes when she showed up on the eve of Cleo's fourth birthday.

"Look at that! Your walking clothes. To what do I owe this change in your attire?"

She smiled tiredly and flopped down on the bed. "They are easier to put back on". Her smile was nowhere near as suggestive as it would have been any other day. He stared, intrigued by her slouched shoulders and heavy eyelids.

"I assume you haven't had quite a nice day"

"You assume right, as always. But the night is turning out to be better"

He smiled softly, slightly disarmed by they way she just curled up into a ball and closed her eyes. His plucking hands slowed down on the violin.

"Pearls for three years in a row. I always thought you were more of the diamond type"

"I am" she whispered without opening her eyes. "I just figured she needed her signature. Somehow pearls seemed right"

"Shouldn't she choose her own signature?"

"Maybe" she shrugged slightly. "But I bet every gem I've stolen that she'd like pearls even without my intromission"

"I accept the bet". She finally opened her eyes, directing him a challenging look. "But do not worry, when you lose, your gems will be hers, not mine"

"I would think you'd want to return them to their rightful owners"

"As you've so kindly said many times before, I have no tangible proof that their stolen. In that case, why should I deprive my daughter from her mother's inheritance?"

She smiled again, just a little more slyly than before. "Are you coming to the other side of the law, Mr. Holmes?"

"Don't hold your breath, Miss Adler"

They both smiled, staring silently at each other.

"So what happened to the dress this year?" she asked, now on full conversation mode.

"Well, you can't really expect it to fit her. She's growing"

"I know, I just wished I could see her wearing it. But how did her last birthday play out? Did you do something special?"

"You should try experiencing her birthdays for yourself instead of asking"

"I would love to"

Holmes sighed "She's your daughter, why can't you be present?". Irene had barely opened her mouth before he cut her off. "Please, allow me to guess. You have a ball waiting for you in Paris, perhaps another diamond to steal?"

"It's not that simple anymore" she answered carefully, very subtly glaring at him. There were bruise-like shadows under her eyes and her breathing was unusually calm and steady. She looked, well, fatigued.

He normally wouldn't, but some rarely used instinct told him to back off.

After he went back to plucking she closed her eyes again, bringing a hand to massage the bridge of her nose. He smiled. She had picked that up from him.

"He doesn't give up, does he?" he chuckled as he pointed at the wedding band. "Four years. Are you leaving him anytime soon?"

"Not really" she whispered.

"Now, that's a problem". He dropped the violin and went to put his hand on her forehead. "You'll need a doctor, I'm positive you have some kind of disease"

She laughed, heartily, which was something she hadn't done in quite a while.

"At least you know it's not my free will that's keeping me away"

That caught his attention.

"What is keeping you away?"

She smiled sadly, the kind of smile that always told him she wasn't going to answer.

She kissed him, almost reassuringly.

That's how they engaged into their third nighttime collision... or maybe, in this case, it was just a simple encounter between two lonely people.

This time they were more careful with each other, exchanging fragile caresses and bittersweet words that, if asked, they would deny ever voicing.

It was a sad situation, they both could admit that much.

* * *

Now tell me, should i change the rating because of that first part? i mean, is it too much for T rating?

I really hope you liked it, i'm quite proud of this one. it certainly is my favorite so far. I hadn't cared about musings in such a long time...

Thanks for reading!


	22. The Second File

What's wrong with me? I'm pulling my hair out, I don't understand where this sudden writer's block came from! I didn't even see it coming!

I don't think I've ever struggled so much with a chapter like I did with this one, it took me over three weeks, many sleepless nights, a lot of coffee and some melodramatic meltdowns to get this done. But here it finally is, the 22nd chapter of Glowingly. I just hope it lives up to last chapter.

Writer's block sucks.

* * *

In these mornings he always wakes up to the light.

Why does she have to leave the curtains open?

Because she wants to throw some more salt on the wound. She understands the way that whitish, foggy winter light increases the sting of morning loneliness. He's quite sure she must have experienced it once or twice in her own life.

In the early hours of those much dreaded mornings, though, the irrationality of the question remains. Why, oh why, does she have to leave the curtains open?

He sniffed, then mentally cursed. He really didn't want to have a cold, especially not after one of her visits. Watson's pitying side-glances were bad enough without the occasional involuntary sniff. Watson always misinterpreted it as a sign of sadness, melancholy. But he just had a cold, and colds made people sniff. How that passed as something else for a _doctor_, was beyond him.

He threw an arm over his tightly shut eyes, trying without success to shield them from the offending light. He grumbled and huffed and sighed, not quite ready to wake up and face his solitude, not yet, not again. Not after all those empty words she had said just a few hours ago, not after all those not-so-empty words he whispered back...

He couldn't help cringing at the memory. So many years and he was still the same idiot when it came to her.

He was tired, but he knew he wasn't going back to dreamland, he had to start that brand new day, one way or another. The first activity of that day would definitely be closing the bloody curtains.

He opened his eyes and the ceiling greeted him.

He changed his mind, his day wasn't about to start any time soon. Maybe if he buried his head into the pillow he would suffocate... or fall back asleep, either one would serve him just fine, so he tried to roll over. Tried.

He fell back on his side of the bed to stare at the sleeping form of Irene Adler.

He blinked once, twice, and a few more times. She was still there. Holmes held his breath, fearing she might dissipate any second. He wouldn't know what to do with himself then.

Maybe he would lose it. He would finally go insane... not just his usual insanity. Bedlam sort of insane.

Carefully, as if the sudden rush of air would turn her into dust and send her flying away, he breathed out. Then in. Then out again. Nothing.

Not quite convinced, but unwilling to reach out and make sure, he sat up and waited. If she was real, she would wake up. If she was an illusion (which was most likely the case) then she had to vanish.

Luckily, he didn't have to wait long, and to his utmost surprise, she woke up. Meaning she was real.

She smiled sleepily, stretched and let out a small yawn. "Good morning" her voice was just a sweet as the look in her eyes. He didn't move. He didn't smile. He just stared. She rolled her eyes before closing them and snuggling against the sheet that covered her. "Alright, then. I'll try again later"

She seemed to have fallen back asleep. She was very good at pretending to be asleep, but then again, if now he couldn't even trust her to run away every morning, why should he trust her breathing patterns? She was human, she had to sleep at some point, right?

Problem was, he still wasn't so sure she was human. Illusions could wake up. Illusions could do pretty much everything.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He didn't know what to think anymore.

Even asleep she managed to torture him.

Ten minutes, half an hour, nothing.

Maybe he had to wake up. Really wake up. Start that awful day he never wanted to start. Maybe he had to _make_ her vanish. It would be for the best.

But, as always, he couldn't bring himself to move.

Two hours, three minutes and a few seconds it took. She stared off into space... into him, for he was less than a foot in front of her.

When her mind registered her environment, her glance fixed on his expectant features. "I woke up before dawn" she explained, turning so she was lying on her back before chuckling. "I didn't even get up from the bed".

He frowned, visibly. He wasn't ready to open his mouth yet. She shrugged and looked at the ceiling. "I couldn't find it in me to leave today"

That was a pleasant surprise to come from Irene.

"Do you, by any chance, still have the kimonos I left here?" He just raised an eyebrow. "Cleopatra would find it strange if she met a woman dressed like a man, don't you think?"

"Watson locked them inside the chest at the feet of his old bed" he spoke for the first time.

"Hmm" she seemed to be deep in thought, but then it dawned on her that he had finally spoken. "Well, maybe I'll have better luck this time" she turned to him. "Good morning"

"Indeed" without asking for permission, his mouth curled up into a one-sided grin.

The smile she returned was radiant.

She sat up, clutching the sheet to her chest with one hand, reaching out to stroke his unshaven cheek with the other. "This is nice" she mumbled.

"What is?"

"Waking up to you"

He nodded "I could tell you the same"

After that particular comment, they ran out of things to say. They had shared many different atmospheres throughout their... whatever it was they had (because they most certainly had something) but awkwardness was something neither of them ever expected from the other.

They looked around helplessly, scrambling their once so witty minds for something intelligible to say. Happiness didn't seem to suit them very well.

So she hoped off the bed and sprinted to the door. But before she could even turn the knob she realized what she was doing. "Sherlock, dear. Could you please go and fetch those kimonos I mentioned earlier?"

"Why me?"

"Well, it will be even stranger to Cleopatra seeing a naked woman creep into her room"

He couldn't help snorting. He stood up and quickly redressed -unlike her, he wasn't one to make a show out of such simple task- and headed out the door with a smirk fresh on his face.

Irene waited, and waited, and after waiting some more she decided it was time to see what was taking Holmes so long.

She carefully walked into Cleo's room (in her men clothes, of course) and shocked her head in amused denial at the sight of Holmes, cursing under his breath as he tried to pick the lock on the chest. Trying hard not to laugh, she knelt down beside him and whispered "You still don't get it, do you?"

He turned to glare at her. "I'm almost done. This thing is just moments away from unlocking"

"Sure it is" she stood up. "What happened to the key?"

"It is very well hidden somewhere in Watson's house" he explained.

"Watson's house? Why?"

He shrugged as if the answer was obvious. "He knew better than to hide it here"

"But why would he want to hide it?"

His eyes widened just a little. "None of your business" he muttered nervously.

She grinned, widely, but decided to save that argument for later. "Why don't you just shoot it?"

Holmes' head whipped around to look at her, a dumbfounded expression on his face. "I don't think you noticed, but there's a sleeping child laying in that bed"

"Well, then take her to the other room and I'll shoot it"

"Even then, a gunshot would unquestionably awaken her"

"Alright, alright". She held her hands up in mock defense and started roaming around the room, waiting for Holmes to give up.

The room hadn't changed much since she used to stay there, of course. Men don't give a damn about decoration.

As she made plans for the room's future an idea suddenly sprang to her mind. She searched in her hair for a few minutes -she needed the services of a hairbrush, but that was for later- until she found it. A hair pin.

Smiling proudly, she showed it to Holmes, who just eyed it questioningly. "Remember that night at the slaughter house? That's the only time I've witnessed you successfully picking a lock. You used _this_"

He blew out a mouthful of air and grudgingly reached for the pin. Within a matter of seconds, he had the lock click open. Irene smiled deviously and opened her mouth. "Don't you dare..." Holmes warned, her smile only widened further.

His male pride was deeply wounded, more so than it usually was after failing at that particular task. A hair pin! He felt like bumping his head against a wall.

"Congratulations are in order, I believe"

She just had to say something, didn't she?.

"Thank you" he gave her that sardonic smirk that wrinkles his cheeks and nose before he turned for the door.

"No, Thank _you_" he stopped at the doorway, and when he looked at her, her smile had shifted from mocking to gentle. He stood there, staring dubiously at her for quite a long time as she took the dresses out of the chest.

"Why are they so..." she was at loss for the way they were all tangled amongst each other. "These wrinkles..." she would mumble as she hung them in the wardrobe, sometimes she would press the fabric between her hands trying to smooth it, but it just wasn't working. She cursed and ranted about how delicate silk was and how very difficult it would be to make those wrinkles go away. It was a good thing Cleo was a heavy sleeper. "Now, which one shall I wear?" she mused.

"Wear the green one. It brings out your eyes". She seemed to have forgotten Holmes was still there for she practically jumped at the sound of his voice. She gave him a confused stare, comments like those were not often heard from him. She spun around and took out two gowns, one jade green and one very familiar dark green.

"Which one?" she held them up for him to admire, she hadn't felt so thrilled to have someone compliment her in years, maybe it was because he never complimented her.

His hand went to his mouth and he considered it for a moment. "The dark green, definitely"

She smiled. The dark green kimono was special. "Dark green, then". She hung the losing dress and closed the wardrobe. "Now, if you'll excuse me" she made her way out and towards Sherlock's room.

He stopped her just as she was about to close the door. "Since when do you need a private room and closed doors to change your attire?". It wasn't very often either that he openly flirted with her like that.

"Since now" she answered over her shoulder before disappearing into the room. _Where did that come from?_ She wondered. _And why would he agree to leave me alone in his room?_. He was acting very odd, but she wasn't one to waste chances. Trying not to move too many things out of their places, she looked for the file- _her_ file, she wanted see if there were any additions to it.

Buried underneath several legal documents, she found not only one, but two files with her name.

She recognized one as the worn out, green file with all the newspaper articles about her criminal career. The other was pitch black and looked brand new, most likely because of a lack of constant usage, yet it was two times thicker than its namesake. Of course, she opened the unknown file first.

Music sheets. Lots and lots of music sheets.

So it was true what he said about the sonatas? She honestly hadn't believed him.

She carefully started sorting through them. They couldn't possibly be eighty-seven, right? He must have been exaggerating...

Surprisingly... Well, only if you counted the ones he had apparently abandoned after a few notes (which were quite a lot), there were exactly eighty-seven. She counted twice, just to make sure.

She really wasn't expecting that. At loss of what to do, she mechanically rearranged the file to look, as much as possible, like it did before. Then she opened the second file, but nothing she could find in there would surprise her anymore.

It was what she _didn't_ find that surprised her. The file was just the same, not an article more, not an article less. She had judged from the amount of dust on top of it that it hadn't been touched in some time, but she never imagined it would be the same as it was six years ago. He obviously stopped following her, she realized with pang of sadness.

She sighed tiredly. Had it really been six years? And adding the couple of years they'd already known each other... it was almost a decade since they first met. "God, we're growing old..." she complained under her breath as she went to put the files where she found them. There was a knock on the door.

"Are you alright?" came Holmes' worried voice from the hall. She gasped, loudly.

"Yes, I..." she had to think fast. "I... was tired, I fell asleep again. You startled me awake" the nervousness in her voice successfully passed as simple agitation after being surprised.

"Oh, I'm sorry, but you should hurry up. I have to wake Cleo up soon" she waited until she could no longer hear his footsteps, then she went back to making the pile of papers look like it hadn't been touched.

* * *

This was supposed to be longer, but i had to cut it here because i really didn't want to make you guys wait any longer.

As i re-read this, I think I found what caused the writer's block: I realize I made some mistakes with the timing.

Their first meeting takes place in **1888**, and if in the movie she'd already outsmarted him _twice_, then I'd speculate the movie to take place in **1890** (more or less), at the beginning of this fic I said it'd been 2 years since he last saw her, so she came to him pregnant in **1892**, I said Cleo was born in 1890 but that's clearly wrong, she was born in **1892**. Now, in this most difficult of chapters, Cleo is four years old, so this chapter takes place in **1896.** In two years they'll be having their tenth anniversary!

Now, onto the topic I didn't want to touch, Sherlock was born in 1854, Irene was born in 1858. So that means... Holmes is 42 and Irene is 38 by now. It isn't so bad, is it? IS IT? Oh my god, I'm freaking out here.


	23. Silk and Butterflies

**5,206 words? really?** I can't believe this. I'm back to school in Wednesday. Deadlines seem to scare the writer's block away...

I'm pretty sure i should have cut this in half, but then again, this is kind of a filler, and fillers tend to be boring. Besides, I don't really know where to cut it.

Now, I did my research: **Robert Downey Jr. is 45** and he looks pretty damn good, so a **42 year-old Holmes** can't be so bad, right? however, Rachel McAdams is 32, but she can't age too much in six years, can she? I mean, my mom is 44 and she looks 30-something. Sorry, I'm trying to justify the age disaster to myself, please tell me I'm making sense.

P.S. if you look above you'll notice that i changed my pen-name. i've been meaning to do it for a long time. Here's what was wrong: _Hola_ (Hello) _Apple _(twilight) _Pie Elk_ (inside joke with a friend, she kinda dumped us when she went off to a dif school, I'm sad :'( _Chocolate Pizza_ (random words)** I'm trying to grow up here!** (and I get a name from a fairytale, how mature)

It's gonna take some getting used to, I don't cope well with changes and I miss my name already! but it's for the best, **plus** this is a lot easier to remember, isn't it? IS IT? Sorry again, now go ahead and enjoy!

* * *

"May I come in?"

"Yes"

"I thought you might need this" Holmes handed her Cleo's hairbrush.

"Is my hair looking so terrible?" she laughed, gratefully taking it from him.

She took a moment to examine the hairbrush. It was all made of silver and had an elegant 'C' engraved on the back. It had been a birthday gift from Mary. Holmes caught the appreciating way she stared at it and gave her an overly warning glare. Irene scoffed.

"Do you seriously believe I would steal from my own daughter?"

"I've never known what to believe from you, darling"

She rolled her eyes, he wasn't going to let that go any time soon.

"Well, _I_ still can't believe I let you name my daughter Cleopatra" Irene complained, walking around the room as she brushed her hair. "I'm definitely naming the next one"

Holmes started choking. "Next one?" he gasped as he coughed violently.

"No, no. I was just joking" she hurried to explain, patting him on the back. Once he managed to catch his breath he collapsed into a nearby chair, bringing his hand to his tousled hair. Now, don't misunderstand him, he loves Cleo with a passion, but she did give him a very difficult time when she was a baby. He had never appreciated sleep until he had to stay awake against his will.

Speaking of the devil...

"Daddy! Daddy!" came Cleo's voice from the hallway. They turned to each other. Irene was excited, Holmes was nervous. "Look at what I found in my bed!" she squealed as she burst into the room. She showed up the little baby blue, pearl embroidered (for the fourth year in a row) kimono.

"It's very nice" he mechanically complemented.

"Who is she?" asked Cleo, pointing at the woman sitting on the bed. "She's very pretty"

They both froze. "She's, um..." Holmes trailed off, staring at Irene expectantly.

"I'm a friend of your daddy's" she hurried to answer. "And I'm here because a little birdie told me that today is your birthday"

"Yes! I'm turning four!" and Irene had to fight tears at Cleo's smile. She could've sworn she got that smile from Holmes if she hadn't known any better.

"And what have you got there?" she pointed at the dress _she_ had brought.

"It's a birthday gift" Cleo explained, laying the dress over her small frame as much as gravity would allow her to. "It's very pretty, isn't it?"

"Yes. Would you like me to show you how to put it on?"

"Oh, please, will you? Will you!" Cleo went to grab her hand, trying to pull her up.

"Of course" Irene stood, letting Cleo drag her to the door.

"When I grow up" Cleo started to chat. "I want to be as pretty as you are"

Holmes finally laughed. "You'll be even prettier than her, Cleo" he called after them.

Irene stopped Cleo at the middle of the hallway. "I have to say something to your father" Cleo pouted. "But I won't take long, just go ahead into your room and I'll be there before you can say Kimono"

Cleo gave her a confused look. "Ki..."

"Kimono"

"Kimm-"

"You just keep trying." Irene ran a hand through Cleo's hair before turning back to Holmes' room. "I... I'm just-" she was starting to say when...

"Kimono!" called Cleo from the hallway. Holmes laughed again.

"Thank you" she whispered, then she pecked him on lips before exiting the room. He was left wit a frown and questioning look on his face.

* * *

Irene was explaining to Cleo what exactly a Kimono was. Very exactly.

"What is it made of?"

"Silk"

"What is silk made of?"

"Ah, um..." she didn't know how a four-year-old would take finding out that what she was wearing came from worms. "Well, they have these farms with little... baby butterflies... Yes! Baby butterflies! They make it out of baby butterflies!" she could only imagine the angry rant she'd have to stand when Holmes found out about this-

"They kill butterflies?" Cleo gasped, horrified.

Irene slapped her forehead. She should've said worms.

"Honey-"

"I don't want to wear dead butterflies!"

"No, no, it's not like that..." she was scrambling her mind for a way to make it right. "They use the butterflies' cocoons"

"What is a cocoon?"

"It's the little bag where the butterflies sleep when they're still babies" Yes, she realized just how ridiculous that sounded.

"Their blankets?"

"Yes, blankets" Irene sighed and wiped her forehead, going back to styling Cleo's hair. And just when she thought it was over...

"But if I'm wearing their blankets, how will they sleep?" the poor thing asked guiltily. "I don't want them to be cold"

Why hadn't she just said worms?

"Oh, don't worry" Irene tried to comfort her. "They make themselves new blankets all the time"

"Really?"

"Yes, they will be just fine"

Cleo sighed in relief. Irene did too.

They stayed in silence for a moment. Cleo analyzed the way they looked in the reflection of the mirror. "Your hair is like mine" she stated.

Irene bit her lips together. "Yes" she murmured. Cleo sighed, a little too wistfully for a four-year-old. "What's wrong?"

Cleo pursed her lips, as if scared to say it. "Will I really be prettier than you?". Irene grinned, she was seeing a lot of herself in Cleo. "Because I don't think that's possible". Irene teared up a little, an image of her own mother flashing through her mind.

"I used to think like that too" she confided. "And look how I turned out". Cleo seemed to mull over it for a moment. "Besides, do you really think your father would be wrong about something?"

Cleo instantly cheered up. "No, my daddy is always right"

"There. If he says you'll be prettier than me, then you will be prettier than me. Now be still so that I can finish your hair"

"_Why are you standing __out here like this? Are you spying on your own daughter?" _came a voice from behind the door.

"_Thanks for giving me away, Nanny"_ they heard Holmes voice.

The door opened and Mrs. Hudson walked in. "How is the birthday girl doing this fine morning..." she trailed off at the sight of Irene.

"Daddy's friend is doing my hair, do you like it?" Cleo asked, unaware of Mrs. Hudson's shocked expression.

"Uh- yes, yes" she stuttered, staring at Irene in bewilderment. "That's nice" she added.

"And look at the dress she gave me"

"Yes, dear. That's nice too"

Irene face had contorted into an exaggerated apologetic look. "It's been a long time, isn't it?" she attempted to start a conversation.

"Yes. We feel very honoured by your visit, Miss Adler" Mrs. Hudson answered, out of courtesy but with an edge of sarcasm. Holmes couldn't help chuckling.

Irene obviously wasn't going to correct her about the 'Miss' and the 'Adler' part. "I'm so sorry. I got a letter from America, my father had become ill, he wanted me by his side just in case..." Irene brought her hand to her mouth, sniffing loudly. Behind Mrs. Hudson's back, Holmes rolled his eyes at her. "When I got there he got a little better, and fortunately he lived for a few more years. But last august..." Irene sniffed again, blinking back fake tears. "Oh well, his time had to come someday, I just..." Irene started sobbing.

"Aw" Cleo turned to hug her. "Poor you. I hope that never happens to my daddy"

Mrs. Hudson had a hand over her chest, a guilty frown overtaking her features "I'm terribly sorry. May the lord have him in His glory"

"Thank you" Irene whispered, wiping tears from her cheeks. She found Holmes eyes across the room and he smiled, discretely clapping at her performance. "Bravo" he mouthed. Irene had to fight the urge to roll her eyes. "We shouldn't be sad, it's Cleopatra's birthday after all"

"Of course, why don't you come and help me with the cake?" smiled Mrs. Hudson, reaching a hand out to her.

"Oh, I want to help with the cake!" Cleo exclaimed.

"It's supposed to be a surprise, dear" Holmes chimed in, noticing the frightened look in Irene's eyes.

"I've never been good with cooking..." she explained nervously.

"Well, it's never too late to learn, is it?" Mrs. Hudson insisted, dragging Irene out the door, not noticing as said terrible cooker bombarded Holmes with desperate looks of the 'Save me!' kind.

Holmes bit the inside of his cheeks, trying not to laugh out loud. Oh revenge, sweet revenge.

* * *

"It isn't a coincidence that we live in 'Baker' street" chuckled Mrs. Hudson and Irene discretely rolled her eyes. There was a knock on the door.

"I'll get it" Irene hurried to say. Anything to get away from cake decorating lessons.

Well, anything but what she found behind the door.

"Miss Adler..." another bewildered look. Look_s. _This time from Mary and Watson.

"Doctor! Mary!" she greeted. They're expressions didn't change. "We were expecting you, come in". she opened the door wider and Gladstone ran into the house. "Look who's also here? Gladstone" she leaned over to pet the dog's head. He growled at her.

It was decidedly the most awkward tea party any of them had ever experienced.

Watson had always strongly disapproved of The Woman, and he often had to remind himself that his beloved goddaughter was in fact created by _her_. But ever since Cleo, he tried to stop nagging/teasing Holmes, he was now trying to understand what went through the detective's mind. The best Watson could do to understand how Holmes could possibly feel was imagining that his dear Mary left him, and he had sincerely started to pity Holmes, who had to go through that all the time. Had his dislike for Irene Adler increased? Surprisingly, no. He found that he just couldn't treat unkind the mother of such a lovely creature.

Mary, on the other hand, couldn't bring herself to forgive her. It didn't seem fair that Irene had a daughter she didn't see, while _she_ –who wanted it more than anything- couldn't have a child of her own. It was just plain cruel.

Irene could only imagine what was going through their minds, and felt suddenly self-conscious around the couple. She knew she couldn't pull the 'ill father' act with them. Watson wouldn't buy it. Perhaps Mary would, but Watson would tell her the truth anyways. It was pointless.

"This tea is actually very good. I can't believe Nanny's responsible for it"

Never had it crossed Holmes' mind that he would one day have to break the tension during some sort of social reunion. He was usually the one _making_ the tension. He didn't know what to do, he usually liked talking but it wasn't as satisfactory if everyone ignored what you were saying.

The Watsons left early that day. Cleo complained, she didn't want to say goodbye to Gladstone yet. Irene felt terrible, like she was ruining her daughter's birthday. Holmes promised to take her to Mary and Watson's house soon so she could play again with Gladstone, and only then Cleo stopped crying.

They stayed up for a little longer, but around six or seven Cleo started to nod off. Holmes put her to bed, tactfully requesting Irene to wait for him in his room.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it to go this way"

"Well, it was a very weird position for me, being the only person in the room who had forgiven you and all" he answered casually.

She frowned. "You forgave me?"

He sighed. "Certainly a little more than they have"

* * *

He was toying with the hand she had laid over his chest and the way the ring in her third finger caught the moonlight.

"Who is he?" Holmes whispered. There wasn't the usual anger to his voice when regarded that particular person, but she could tell that curiosity wasn't exactly the driving force behind his question either.

"I'm not sure you want to know" she objected.

But "Tell me" he pleaded in a tone she had never heard from him.

She remained quiet, and just when he convinced himself that she wasn't going to answer, she sighed. "His name is Freddo Nicolasso"

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "What a name… And what, pray tell, does this gentleman do for a living?"

"Well, he invested in a small theatre in Paris"

"But I remember you mentioning The Philippines?"

"That was for the honeymoon. After three months he said he was tired of traveling and we settled in Paris. We have a two story house near Montmartre" She said it like it was something to be proud of.

How could he avoid the bitter pang of jealousy after hearing a word such as 'settled' come out of those rose red lips?

"Settled? In Montmartre?" he chuckled, trying not too sound too baffled. "I never pictured you living amongst bohemians"

"You always considered me a bohemian. You consider _yourself_ a bohemian"

"Let me reformulate my statement, then. I never pictured you living amongst _poor_ bohemians. What is there for you to steal?"

She laughed. "You won't believe me, but I'll tell you anyway: I have not stolen a single thing since Cleo was born"

_You're stilling our lifetimes_, he could've said. "Does he make you happy, then?"

The word had been dancing on the tip of her tongue for a while, but she finally identified it. That low, bittersweet tone his voice had taken. He sounded sad. Not melancholic or hurt. He was just sad, and she couldn't find a logical reason for the way that knowledge crushed her chest and made her feel slightly breathless. Well, not a reason she was willing to admit, at least.

"Honestly?"

He pursed his lips. It was the only thing he ever asked of her, honesty. Yet, what had the truth (if she'd ever said it) done for him lately? Perhaps he should change his strategy, perhaps a better outcome would come from the lie. But even then, he would know it's a lie and he would instinctually deduce the truth. And she knows he would do something like that, she would give him the truth so that whatever he deduces is actually a lie...

Where was the point? Wasn't _he_ the one tired of games? He sighed, he couldn't trust her anyway. "Yes, honestly"

She looked at the ring "No, he doesn't make me happy in the slightest bit" she murmured.

Holmes closed his eyes. He was really hoping she didn't say that. "Then you must love him quite a lot"

"Didn't you hear what I just said?" she propped on her elbow to get a better look at him.

"Yes, my ears still work just fine, darling" He turned to give her a pointed stare. "You agreed to settle. In Montmartre. You even stopped stilling! And he makes you miserable. But you stayed with him for over four years. Isn't that what you'd call love?" his voice raised a tad more than he'd intended, it only made him sound more accusing. She didn't answer, he insisted "Why would you do that if you didn't love him?"

"What do you even know about love?" she snapped.

And then he got that _look_ on his face, that subtle way he memorizes her features. His eyes scan her meaningfully, slipping from place to place with expert timing, because it isn't the first time he looks at her like that. What did he know about love? She was better off not knowing.

"You haven't denied it" he insists.

"I don't love him"

He sighed and fell back against the pillow.

"But you won't believe it" she stated. He shook his head.

"It isn't like you _have_ to convince me"

"You asked"

"No. I asked if you were happy, then came to my own conclusions"

"It might be a foreign concept for you, but your conclusions are mistaken"

Holmes rolled his eyes. She huffed in annoyance.

Curiously, he was still holding her hand.

She sat up, taking her hand from his. He sighed as he released it.

He wasn't going to look, but expected to feel the bed shift, hear her stomp around the room as she got dressed then flinch at the slamming front door.

After five minutes of nothing but hisses, grunts and a few curse words, he gave up and looked.

This time _she_ was the one taking the ring off.

She winced a lot and rejected his help several times, but with a little patience it came off without causing as much damage as it had last time. Irene held it between her thumb and index finger for a couple of minutes, before she took his hand and placed it on his palm. She was breathing heavily, a determined gleam in her eyes. "It's yours" she explained, as if the whole ceremony hadn't been enough.

"What does that mean?"

"I don't want it in my finger anymore" she laughed, wiping a tear from her cheek "I never wanted it in the first place"

He could've asked only so many questions. Why? How? When? It was the moment, he was sure she would tell him anything.

But he didn't even look at the golden object as he threw it over his shoulder. He sat up and kissed her, because he didn't give a damn about anything as long as that hideous thing wasn't in her finger.

* * *

The next day, Holmes receives a letter. It's from Lestrade, requesting his assistance urgently. When does he not need Holmes help?

So he's standing by the front door, Irene stands beside him and listens almost carefully as he gives indications about Cleo's bedtime stories, just in case he doesn't make it back before eight o'clock. Irene smiles and nods condescendingly, assuring him everything will be perfectly fine during his absence while she ties a scarf around his neck and suddenly, he feels the way he can only imagine Watson feels. Leaving his home early in the morning, standing in the doorway, pulling his coat on, kissing his wife goodbye...

Except she's not his wife. She's a stolen glimpse of the life another lucky man gets, a life he won't ever be getting.

AND he's not kissing her. Not yet anyways...

"Remember, she loathes Cinderella. She's irrationally scared of mice. And of course the self-mutilating stepsisters aren't a nice mental image either..." he muses. "And please keep in mind that she's only four-years-old and that no Opera's plot is suitable for her little mind"

Irene laughs, he knows her too well.

"No Cinderella, No opera. I've got it"

He bites his lips together. He knows he's forgetting something, but he's already running late. He'll just have to trust her, and he can't help shuddering at the thought.

"Alright..."

"Yes"

"Well, I um... I should... get going..."

She nods

They stand there in front of each other in awkward silence, realizing the normality of the situation. He finally sighs and gives in, leaning forward to plant a small kiss on her lips. She returns it for a moment before he pulls away and runs out the door.

She smiles and shakes her head as she watches him walk away.

* * *

He really didn't want to ask. He really didn't. He was not, under any circumstances, asking where this was leading them.

They'd been in here before. The routine, the stolen smiles, the easiness. It always ended the same way.

He knew it was coming, but It looked pretty far away right now. He couldn't hope it would last, he knew better, yet he was intending to enjoy every minute of their poor excuse of a fake marriage while there still was one.

Now, not many people knew about Cleo. He obviously wouldn't take her to a crime scene or to interrogate somebody, and when he wasn't solving crimes and making London a safer place, you could find him at 221b Baker Street spending some quality time with his little girl. She was only four and there wasn't much for her to do out on the streets of London. Every now and then Watson and Mary would insist on taking her to the circus or the zoo, sometimes Holmes would tag along, but most of the time he had some undercover plan to carry out or something of the sorts.

If anyone in London had ever seen Cleo, they would have believed she was Dr. Watson's daughter. Holmes wasn't ready to change that any time soon, after all, he did have quite a lot of enemies and he wouldn't want to expose Cleo to a potential abduction, he was still trying to come up with a reasonable enough plan to increase Cleo's safety.

He was conscious, too, that in approximately two years she'd start going to school and he would have to make appearances as her father, that's when the falsified marriage certificate would come into action.

So even though he was bursting out with pride, he couldn't let Lestrade know that a baby could solve crimes better than Scotland Yard's policemen.

* * *

"We enjoyed ourselves, we baked cookies" chatted Irene as she helped him out of his coat.

It was some time after nine, and Cleo had been put to bed by Irene, who did a surprisingly god job by telling her about the little boy whose finger avoided the dam from breaking.

"_...And when they found him, he became the town's hero"_

"_Did his father reward him with toys and chocolate?"_

_Irene crocked her head to the side, she wasn't expecting that. "Yes" she didn't know that part of the tale, but it was a good guess._

"_And did he become the town's recurrent hero?"_

_Before she could be surprised by her perfect sentence articulation, she remembered just _who_ had been raising her._

"_I don't know"_

"_My daddy knows" she affirmed. "He knows everything. I'll ask him when he comes back"_

"_But he won't be coming back soon, and you have to sleep know"_

"_I want to know!" she pouted._

_Irene felt an 'aw' sound threatening to escape her throat when she recognized Holmes in the way Cleo's lips stood out just barely. She was so much like him and he wasn't even her real father._

_She scooted closer to her on the bed, as if telling her a secret. "He's going to be very mad at me if he finds you awake, do you want him to be angry at me?" her voice was sugar-coated. Cleo shook her head a little. "Tell you what. You just sleep. As soon as he gets home I'll ask him what happened to the little boy, and it'll be the first thing you hear in the morning" She bargained. Cleo eyed her hesitantly._

"_Do you promise?" Cleo asked in a small voice._

_Irene smiled. "I promise" she whispered, holding her hand to her chest._

_Cleo beamed, settling back against the pillows. "I like you" she half yawned. _

"_Well, I like you too". On a rush of motherly instinct, Irene pulled the bedcovers more tightly around her, then leaned in to kiss her daughter's cheek before putting out the candle by the nightstand and leaving the room._

"Then Cleopatra said the dough looked 'interesting' and asked if she could taste it. TASTE it. You should've seen Mrs. Hudson's face" Irene laughed. "She threw a rant about how disgusting and unhygienic that would be, then she started on how bad of an influence you are for teaching her such things"

"Do _you_ find it disgusting and unhygienic?"

"No, but I humored her. Then when she wasn't looking a grabbed the spoon and handed it to Cleo. She said it tasted like flour, cinnamon, butter and chocolate"

He chuckled. Yes, Sherlock Holmes was proud of his girls...

"No wonder how she learned to identify those substances, I just hope you haven't made her taste rocks or sniff a rat's tails yet"

He suddenly stopped in the middle of the stairs, making her bump into him. "That explains why she's so terribly scared of mice..."

"What?" He turned to look at her outraged expression. "You made her sniff a rat's tail?"

"It was a laboratory _mouse _who happened to be in excellent health when he died by the weight of my foot"

She just stared at him in shock "I'm starting to think Mrs. Hudson was right. You are a bad influence for her"

His eyes narrowed infinitely. "Well, dear darling, I happen to be the only influence she _has_..." he accused between his teeth.

Her face scrunched up frustration. He had a point.

They both looked off into different directions, trying to stop themselves from getting into a fight that had never led them anywhere.

"She wants to know what happened to the Dutch boy after he kept the dam from breaking, she insists that you have to know because you know everything" she whispered after a few minutes, staring intently at her shoes. He took it as an apology. "What do I tell her?" she asked.

"Tell her that he became the most cherished citizen of the town" he said tiredly, starting again his way upstairs.

"I told her that. She wants to know if he became –and I quote- the recurrent hero of the town"

Holmes stopped again, rubbing a hand over his face. "Yes, he started saving kittens and helping old ladies cross streets" He sighed.

"Was that sarcasm?"

"No. I believe she will like that answer. She likes kittens and she likes Mrs. Hudson"

Irene smiled "Alright, I'll tell her that in the morning"

He nodded, still facing away from her.

"You've gained experience, haven't you?"

Holmes frowned. "I've certainly gained experience on a lot of things but I don't know what you mean"

"Child caring"

He half scoffed, half snorted. "I had some hidden instinct overpower my rational mind" he joked.

"Did you ever see yourself like this?"

"Not at all" then his mouth lifted up a bit. "But I thank you for her every waking moment"

Her smile softened and she stepped up to wrap her arms around his waist, laying her cheek on his chest. He rested his chin atop her head and returned the embrace. They stood there for a five-minute-long eternity.

"I'm tired" he slightly whined. Hopefully she would catch the message.

"Aw" she groaned. "We'll just sleep?"

He chuckled. "Yes, please"

"But how can you be tired? You're never tired"

"Well, the years are catching up with me, darling. Besides, you haven't really let me get any sleep the last couple of days"

She sighed. "Fine, fine. You'll get your sleep"

He kissed the top of her head. "Thank you"

That night they fell asleep just like the old times, when they talked each other to sleep and had a baby bump between them. Before everything got so complicated.

As he drifted off (always after her), he briefly nursed the crazy idea that maybe, just maybe, this time their silly happiness would last.

* * *

How did they end up fighting so much? I wanted happy, lovey-dovey fluff! I guess fightning must be part of their relationship's description.

Just in case, Montmartre is a... what's the word? Neighbourhood? in Paris... ever seen Moulin Rouge? yeah, that's Montmartre, it isn't exactly the richest sector of the city. I don't quite picture Irene living there...

I'm gonna regret saying this, but this chapter kinda marks the beginning of the end, something like the last 10 chapters (though I tend to cut chapters off at the middle when I take too long to finish them). Now Please, I beg you, be 100% honest: Are 10 chapters approx. too much? Are you feeling bored or something? I do care a lot about what you think!


	24. Scrambled Eggs

Oh my gosh, you really are going to murder me this time, aren't you?

Now, I don't know how breakfast in the nineteen century was, so I decided to go safe with scrambled eggs, I mean, they had hens back then, didn't they? Besides, other than sandwiches, that's the only decent thing I know how to make. My future husband and children will probably starve to death... unless I marry a chef, which would be pretty cool...

Where was I? Oh, yes, it's been a month... yeah, I give up, you have every right to get an angry mob and kill me now.

* * *

"Good morning"

"Hmmm… Good morning" he mumbled almost unintelligibly.

It was just minutes after dawn, Irene made sure it was clear outside before she woke him. She ran a hand through his hair, avoiding his sleepy gaze. "We need to talk" she sighed.

He didn't like the sound of that. Holmes groaned loudly, screwing his eyes shut and pulling her closer to his chest. "Five minutes" he grunted, burying his face in her hair. She glanced at the grandfather clock near the door. Six thirty.

"Alright, but I'll be counting". He grunted again but was soon back asleep. Had she really tired him so much? She thought with a half sad, half smug grin.

She took to playing with his hair, thinking out her strategy; she needed to come up with the right words, for he tended to misinterpret her hand gestures and facial expressions. She sighed, she didn't want to have strategies anymore, not around him at least. Ten minutes passed. Fifteen, forty, an hour and a half. She didn't want to wake him again.

"Sherlock?" she shook his shoulder gently. "It's been a lot more than five minutes"

"Where's the point in getting up, anyway?" he whined, slurring a little on the words.

"Well, then. At least let _me_ get up". He froze, and she noticed. "I wanted to make you breakfast" she explained sweetly. His body relaxed and he broke into a fit of muffled snorts. "Holmes! Don't laugh!" she pushed him away and he rolled on his back.

"Mrs. Hudson will take care of that" he panted, trying to sneak his arms around her waist again.

"I want to try out this 'housewife' business" she announced, prying his hands away from her and moving to get up.

"You? A housewife?" He sat up. She had to be joking, he thought.

"After yesterday, I've been thinking that it can't be so bad" she said seriously, looking around the messy room for something to wear. "I liked spending the whole day here with Cleo" she murmured, picking things from the ground and placing them where she thought appropriate, he was too stunned to protest. She found (under a pile of other clothes) Holmes' tobacco-burnt, dog-eared red robe. She smiled and slipped it through her bare shoulders. Making a tight knot around her waist, she took a moment to openly enjoy the itchy texture and closed her eyes to let his scent fill her nostrils.

Holmes breath discretely caught in his throat, and he tried not to think about how perfectly beautiful she looked with her hair all tangled up and wearing his clothes. He shouldn't get used to that sight. Yet he couldn't help it when his mind went into memorizing mode, he had to save that image for some lonely Sunday morning, maybe a rainy afternoon or even a sleepless night when the only thing that can soothe his aching soul is that mental painting, sometimes hazy, sometimes crystal clear, of the only woman that ever caught his eye.

"What's that look in your face?" she laughed. "Is that a gleam I see in your eyes?" she gushed mockingly.

He blinked, his mind shutting down. "I was just…" he gulped, scrambling his brain for something to say. "I was thinking that I should purchase a new robe" he commented quite believably, but then he bit his lips trying not to make that half-a-second-long pout.

"Liar. You love this robe" she dismissed, turning her back on him.

He chuckled and moved to stand up. "I love it more on you" he whispered in her ear, suddenly coming up behind her. She yelped just a little but grinned contentedly anyways, relaxing against him and closing her eyes.

He started a trail of open-mouthed kisses down her neck, affectionately more than urgently. He was just trying to be sweet, she realized, and it surprised her how very capable he was of doing something just because he felt like it. She couldn't help the sigh that escaped her lips.

"I'm tired" she complained somewhat childishly, he frowned and rested his chin on her shoulder to get a better view of her face.

"But we just woke up"

"I meant emotionally. Though now that you mention it, I'm not so physically vibrant either" she mused distractedly.

"What do you mean with that?" he mumbled, running his fingers over the patterns in the fabric that covered her waist.

"I'm not sure" she stared out the window. "Have you ever felt this… heaviness inside your chest, it's like being sad but…" she trailed off, feeling a little frustrated. Holmes looked at her in amusement.

"A good kind of sadness?" he offered. She smiled quite genuinely.

"How'd you guess?" she asked, truly curious, as she turned her head in his direction.

He shrugged. "I'm tired too" he confessed, now looking out the window and into the blinding morning light. She leaned to kiss whatever part of his face she could reach (that was his temple) before resting her head atop his.

"C'mon, I want to make scrambled eggs" she said, stepping out of his arms and taking his hand in hers. He moaned and threw his head back as she dragged him downstairs.

* * *

Irene's hand was shaking as she carefully attempted to crack an egg. She tentatively touched it to the edge of the sink, cursed under her breath and vowed to crack it the next time she tried. However, four or five attempts later she was holding a perfectly undamaged egg in her tense hand.

"Is everything alright?" asked Holmes without raising his eyes from the newspaper.

"Perfectly alright" she answered, keeping the sarcasm to herself.

_This is it_, she thought resolutely, and it took less than a second.

She felt a little exhilarated; she had finally cracked the egg. Still in the high of her success, she took some more eggs and practically smashed them against the bowl. With a triumphing smile she grabbed a spoon and stirred up the mix. She didn't do anything about the remaining pieces of eggshell as she poured the mix into the frying pan.

"I have to get dressed" she announced all off a sudden. "This wearing your clothes thing is too honeymoon period"

"What's wrong with honeymoon period?" he questioned innocently, putting aside his newspaper and turning to give her his whole attention.

"Well, we've been fake married for four years and we already have a daughter. I think it's a little too late for that" she explained.

"But that's not fair, we never did get a honeymoon!" He would've scoffed had someone ever told him that one day he'd be arguing about honeymoons with Irene Adler.

"Since when do you even care about that?"

"Contrary to what you might be inclined to believe, I do enjoy greatly being fake married to you" he confessed in a husky whisper, reassuming his place behind her and enclosing his arms around her svelte figure.

"Have you reconsidered your views on marriage, then?" she smiled suggestively, even knowing that he couldn't see her face.

"Never" he was only half-lying. "But there's nobody else in god's green earth I'd rather have as my fake wife" he sounded just a little too condescending, but she couldn't really care, for that had to be the nicest thing he'd ever said to her.

"Mmm… good to know" she mumbled contentedly as he nuzzled her neck. "Have I, at the very least, convinced you to stop being celibate?"

He chuckled half-heartedly. "I gave up on celibacy a long time ago…" he whispered in her ear, succeeding on making her shudder. "I now practice a doctrine that might actually be worse. One that frustrates me to no end, one that's turning me more and more into a crazy fool with every passing second." by now controlling her breathing was a lost cause, and she was squirming to turn around in his arms and kiss him senseless. "It's called 'being faithful'. Of course, I don't expect you to know what that means." he finished in a smooth, controlled voice as he released her panting frame.

She stood there in confusion for a few moments. "I'll get dressed" she managed to utter, frustrated that he could have such an effect on her, frustrated even more, that not even in her clearest state of mind she'd be able to come up with a honorable response to his truthful accusations.

She was looking at the ground, in behalf of her balance, as she made her way upstairs, so she didn't catch the soft smile that appeared in Holmes face and the way he shook his head in amusement as he went back to his newspaper. It felt so good to be the unaffected one every once in a while.

About two minutes later, Irene was running down the stairs whisper-yelling "The eggs! The eggs!" Holmes shook his head again and did his best not to laugh as she hurried to turn off the stove. She forgot they needed to be stirred constantly, so her scrambled eggs became an omelet.

She shrugged as she put it on a plate (burnt side down) and placed it in front of Holmes in the kitchen table.

"I thought you said you were making scrambled eggs?" he questioned, analyzing the contents of his plate. It didn't look quite so bad.

"I changed my mind in the last minute" she beamed expectantly.

Setting aside the possibility of it being poisoned, Holmes accepted the fork she was offering him and took a bite. "Crunchy" he commented with a foul expression, it rasped his throat a little as he swallowed it nervously.

Her face fell. "You don't like it"

"No, I do. It's great" he was quick to object.

She knew he was lying, but it was so sweet of him to do so... she wasn't going to turn him down.

Besides, this came as a revenge for the way he toyed with her volatile sexual appetite earlier that morning.

* * *

"Sherlock" she whispered later that morning, the tone of her voice made his heart ache already. "Remember I told you that we need to talk?"

He should've seen it coming. He ran a hand over his hair, hanging his head over his chest.

"Sherlock, I..." she trailed off, she couldn't do this.

He wanted to yell at her, shake her shoulders violently and blackmail her into staying, but he suddenly felt heavy, _tired_. He let himself fall back on the chair and buried his head in his hands. He couldn't find it in him to stop her, he had been in that situation too many times and he just couldn't handle it anymore. "Don't tell me" hadn't the room been so quiet she wouldn't have heard a word. "You never tell me, don't start now" he shook his head just slightly. "Don't look for excuses" he raised his head, but otherwise didn't look at her "just go" he barely mouthed.

"It's not what you think" she knelt down in front of him and took his long face between her smaller hands, forcing him to look at her. "I will come back" she whispered, putting on her best smile.

He eyed her face like he so often did, memorizing her features. "I know you will." He reached out for a lock that had fallen over her face, softly caressing her cheek as he rearranged it behind her ear and added in a lower voice "You always do."

Her smile widened. "What's the problem, then?" she asked sweetly, stroking his cheek condescendingly like a mother would to her child. Holmes sighed, pried her hands away from his face and stood up

"The problem, dear, is that you keep leaving" he turned his back to her and stared at the stove. "It works for you, but certainly not for me and Cleo"

Irene sighed and in a rare –though recently recurring- comforting gesture went to hug him. She rested her head on his chest, but he didn't move, his arms kept hanging helplessly at his sides. "I have some errands to run, it won't be more than a few months..."

"Don't make promises you cannot keep" he interrupted, pushing her away and taking a few steps back.

"...But when I do come back it will be for good." She continued nonetheless.

"Don't make promises you can't keep" he repeated it mechanically, like a mantra not even he wanted to listen to.

"But I will keep it"

"No, you won't" he stared at her defiantly, cold almost. "Just leave already" he whispered, waving his hand towards the front door.

She didn't think twice as she stormed out furiously. Looking back, she regrets it.

Holmes reunited with the kitchen chair and the newspaper, desperately praying for a case Scotland Yard couldn't handle.

Exactly the same Watson found him later that morning "Holmes, I saw this on your doorstep..." he trailed off upon the sight of his depressed friend. Watson figured he could find out what the folded piece of paper in his hand said before he gave Holmes any more problems.

_If that's what you wish, then I'll leave you to finally forget me..._

_I promise not to come back again._

There was no signature, but he had a feeling he knew just who wrote it. Besides, the handwriting was more of a scribble, barely understandable, obviously the hand responsible for it was shaking terribly. That summed to Holmes distant look could only mean one thing: the absence of Irene Adler in the house. _In Holmes life. _Watson thought._ And now it's definitive... he must be devastated._ He continued, already pitying the poor man in front of him.

"Holmes"

No response. Watson sighed, his chest heavy.

"Holmes, I know this is difficult for you..."

"Don't you dare pity me" he hissed almost soundlessly.

Watson bit his lips and nodded even though Holmes wasn't looking at him. "I found this outside" he tried to sound nonchalant, handing him the small letter.

Holmes yawned and reached out for it, lazily reading the words. He wasn't surprised.

"She doesn't know how to keep a promise" he told Watson, carelessly throwing the paper over his shoulder. "She'll be back."

* * *

Couldn't he see that she just wanted to get divorced? Well, may be if she had said it with all those words instead of expecting him to deduce it... Irene let her head fall between her hands. How had she gotten herself into this situation _again_! Wasn't the Moriarty incident enough? And this time she had _two_ weak spots.

Irene raised her face towards the ceiling, trying to hold back tears of anger and self-hatred.

She felt so... well, stupid. Why didn't she tell him the truth? Why couldn't she accept that this had gotten out of her hands? Why couldn't she just come undone and ask for his help? She never had any problems with pulling out the damsel-in-distress act in order to get what she wanted.

But she was the only criminal to ever outsmart the great Sherlock Holmes so many times that both of them stopped keeping track. That wasn't going to go to waste just because she was in over her head yet again. She needed to prove that she was strong and witty enough to take care of herself; she needed show him that she didn't need him.

God _damn_ that bloody man.

She sighed in rendition. In the silent first class train cabin, she allowed herself to admit how impulsive and thoughtless she could be sometimes...

Because it was by no means _his_ fault.

She shouldn't have left that day, four years ago; she learned that the hard way. Looking back, she wants to slap her younger self for her childish reasons, for not appreciating his affection towards her, for not realizing how happy she could be with him, with _them_... more likely, for not _wanting_ the happiness she knew was within her reach. Only now she could see how wonderful life as a housewife could've been.

And she wanted to slap her present self for not having the courage to give up her pride and make everything right.

It was of no use there, in that lonely cabin, but she finally allowed herself to show how weak she really was.

She wasn't one to make a lot of noise when she cried, but she felt a cry of rage nestling in her throat, ready to break free the moment she opened her mouth. So she locked her teeth together and sobbed gently until her mind gave out and her body relaxed into a slightly peaceful slumber.

She was awakened by a loud knocking on her door. "Mademoiselle, êtes-vous bien?" came the valet's worried voice from the hall. It took her a moment to register what the man was saying. She sighed sleepily, she had never been so unhappy to arrive to Paris. "Mademoiselle, écoutez-moi?"

"Oui, je vais bien. Je vais aller dans un instant!" she called, moving to stand up. She stared at herself in the oval-framed mirror in the opposite wall. Her hair was a mess, she didn't brush it before leaving baker street, her eyes were red and swollen and let's not even start on her makeup (which was the same from the day before because she went to bed without washing her face and she felt so comfortable around Sherlock that she hadn't bothered to wash it off that morning). She looked disastrous, and that worked just perfectly for her.

"Mademoiselle!" insisted the valet.

"Je viens, je viens!" With one last helpless look around she finally left the cabin.

The poor valet's insistence didn't pay off, for she wasn't carrying any luggage with her. Still, she gave the man a generous tip for waking her up. Out on the streets of Paris, finding a carriage proved a difficult task, for she looked like she'd been sleeping out on the street. She couldn't bring herself to care. A few hours later and just as she felt the first drop of rain in her hair, she reached her house, _their_ house. Her husband and hers. She sighed bitterly at the thought.

Annina opened the door for her. _Where have you been? Are you alright? Why do you look like this? Mon Dieu! _It was all the same every year. She should really stop bonding with the servants.

She mumbled a few standard reassurances to calm Annina as she made her way towards the living room.

"Irina!" greeted her that disgusting Italian accent. "Cara mia! What took you so long?" there were no traces of actual excitement in his high-pitched voice.

"You were supposed to be back three days ago. Should I be worried about my hold on your affections?" he said darkly, standing up and making his way towards her. She bit her lower lip, trying with all her might not to punch the man in the face.

"Of course not, dear" the words were full of acid; however the effect was lost in the hoarseness of her voice. She took a deep breath and decided to use her bloodshot eyes and tear-stained cheeks for a greater purpose. "Cleopatra..." Irene began, "She had a very high fever, she was in the hospital when I arrived-" she stopped, trying to get a hold on herself. "Her condition was stable, but she wasn't getting better either. I didn't want to leave her side, but this morning..." she gulped as she prayed to a god she wasn't even sure existed for her words to never come true. "She died this morning." An unexpected sob broke through her ribcage to only imagine the possibility. Freddo smiled sadly and went to put a 'comforting' hand on her shoulder.

"It's for the best" he whispered. Irene felt her blood go cold to see that this man didn't give a damn about his own daughter. "Now there's nothing tying you to 221b Baker Street!" his smile widened. Irene gave him an incredulous look, but she wasn't really surprised as he made his way towards an ice-filled metal bowl with a bottle of champagne resting inside. "A toast" he said, opening the bottle and pouring the golden liquid in two glasses "To your freedom!"

She mindlessly took the glass he was offering. "To my freedom" she repeated with a sarcastic note Freddo didn't catch, clinking her glass to his and drinking the liquor in one quick motion.

* * *

I'm aware of the amount of mistakes (both grammatical and orthographical) I must have made, so if you notice one (or a lot), please don't hesitate to point it out.

I know I said you could kill me, but can I at least beg for my life first?

I usually have at least a little something I wrote in advance before I start a chapter, but I'm afraid those days are over. I'm starting chapter 25 from cero, as well as every upcoming chapter... Don't get me wrong, I'm not gonna just make it up as I go, I already planned out what's gonna happen now. I just haven't written a word about it. I know, shame on me. but** I'm not, by any means, giving up on this fic. **

Thank for reading and waiting, I hope you stick around for the end.


	25. Of Sunshine and Rainy Clouds

Please don't kill me.

We have a special guest in this chapter...

* * *

It's all the same process every time, yet every single time is different from the last. It depends too on the person, of course.

He kisses her neck, she sighs. It's rendition, and as he pushes her down onto the bed she comforts herself thinking that in just a year she'll be leaving this all behind.

_He _will run his hands over her in a similar manner, in similar patterns and in a similar context. But it will be different, because she won't feel nauseated as he rips off the fabric that separates them. He will kiss away the disgusting sensation of her husband's touch, and in his arms she'll be free... and just as much, she'll be trapped, but oh! Is it not the sweetest capture?

If only for that night she'll see eternity in his warmest of eyes and she'll smile just barely, knowing her future is safely guarded in there.

The next morning her strength will be renewed, and fresher than ever she'll return to her husband's side.

It pains her terribly that, in a matter of months, said man will erase all traces of _him, _whose frantic fingers she can still feel, whose rough lips she can still taste, whose olive eyes she can still see.

The routine is never ending, that's the way it was always meant to be, and she's sure he will one day come to terms with it, just like she had.

It's not so bad, after all, she can always go back next year...

But it strikes her with full-force, like a lighting breaking through a peaceful sky, that there will be no next year. She gasps, she would've rather had an actual lighting hit her, it would be a dull ray of sunshine compared to the crashing sound of her broken soul as she understands that she'll never be in _his_ presence again...

...And god, she just loathes the way his cold hands grasp her waist. She winces, blinking back tears. She fixes her gaze on the ceiling and prays for it to be over soon.

She would eventually forget his lips on her face, on her neck, loving and fighting all at once. One day she would wake up to discover that she forgot the strength in his arms, both physical and emotional, as he pulls her closer and closer to him until they're one.

She's condemned, and she was the one to set the death sentence over herself.

* * *

She took his robe.

Any other day he'd be livid, whispering all kinds of curse words in many different languages. But that night he only smiled and shook his head sadly, fighting the unfamiliar obstruction inside his throat that made his eyes itch and prickle with an also unfamiliar liquid.

He should've noticed the peculiar way that green kimono hugged her body when she came rushing down the stairs. Maybe he was unable to think straight in her presence, maybe the years were catching up with him. Or maybe it was both, he didn't give it much thought as he crawled into his bed. His big, lonely bed where the smell of her signature perfume remained fresh, almost like she was still there and if he crashed a pillow to his chest and shut his eyes tightly enough, he could pretend so.

But she wasn't there, and when that dull, mocking morning light managed to slip into his purposefully darkened room, he would be reminded once again that nothing about him could ever keep her by his side.

The next morning he woke up, He had to. He got up, he had to. He dragged his feet down the stairs. He had to.

"Which member of her family has become ill now?"

Holmes gave the laziest chuckle, briefly thanking some greater power for putting Mrs. Hudson in his life...

Bloody woman with the bloody reactions she caused on him. Grateful for Mrs. Hudson? What was he becoming? He felt horrified, because in that new state of mind (and of soul, because he could now admit he had one) he couldn't bring himself to deny that he was indeed comforted by Mrs. Hudson's presence.

"I wouldn't be so quick to judge her" he answered, some of his energy returning. This was a good opportunity to engage into an argument.

"Oh, so you believe her?"

"I do" he managed to sound convinced. A little too convinced, in fact, for Mrs. Hudson didn't even try to start the fight he so desperately needed.

"Fool" murmured angrily Mrs. Hudson as she retreated to the kitchen.

"Indeed" he whispered to himself once she disappeared.

He lifted the newspaper, opened it and tried to concentrate. He couldn't.

Hadn't it been just yesterday when she was cooking for him?

It didn't help that he had to explain to his four-year-old daughter that the woman she had grown so attached to, had unexpectedly left.

The small, perfectly round tears running down her puffy cheeks and the "I don't want her to go" uttered in between sobs still haunted his memory.

He shuddered, clenched and unclenched his fists, bit his lips together and, at last, dropped the newspaper on the table and stood up. He needed his pipe...

Except he wasn't allowed to smoke anymore.

He ran a hand trough his hair. Fine, no smoking, he'll just go shoot something.

But he can't because the gunshot would scare Cleo.

He hissed and looked up towards the ceiling, asking the heavens for an outlet to all the anger and confusion that plagued his mind.

No outlet? Perfect, he'll just have to keep it all inside, as always.

Then his eyes landed on the newspaper. A day without finding out what's going on in London couldn't hurt so much, right? He sighed, picking it up again, this time with a different intention.

"Daddy, why are you mad at the newspaper?"

He froze. The announcement page he had been tearing apart dropped to the floor.

Cleo stood in the doorway of the dinning room, still wearing her nightgown and squinting her sleepy eyes at him.

Holmes took a deep breath and searched for an answer, but no result came out.

"Did you read something bad?" she innocently offered, Holmes couldn't help smiling.

"Yes, darling. I just read a bad thing" he repeated.

They ate breakfast in silence, as per usual. That was precisely what Holmes loved the most about his daughter; she had the ability to maintain a comfortable silence.

That little girl was his sunshine and his rainy cloud all at once. Just looking at her made him feel better, she was wonderful and he had her all to himself. And just looking at her made his heart ache. She was just so... _her, _it was painful, that nose, that hair... and just like her mother, Cleo would eventually leave him too. He felt light-headed to only think about it, he wasn't sure he would survive after it actually happened.

When he was calmer, he wondered why it took so long for the anger building inside of him to burst out. Two inner Sherlocks debated whether he was physically tired and needed some time off, or whether he was just growing old. They never came to an agreement.

But Irene would be back, of that, he was sure.

* * *

Christmas for Sherlock Holmes was never an eventful day.

Then Cleo came along and... well, paychecks weren't lasting as much as they used to, but every December 25th there would be a freshly cut tree, along with five or six toys waiting underneath it.

Watson and Mary were usually an irreplaceable part of that fine morning, but for Cleo's fourth Christmas the couple happened to be spending the holidays in the country with a recently discovered relative of Mary's (Had Holmes known, he would've never agreed to help Mary find that long lost aunt she remembered from her childhood). Mrs. Hudson followed their example, and so Holmes and Cleo found themselves alone in that chilly Christmas morning.

Holmes suppressed a sigh as he jumped out of bed; it was the only way not to give himself another five minutes to dwell in his misery. He slowly descended the staircase, the sound of paper being torn apart filled the lonely rooms of 221 Baker Street as Cleo –who was always up and about long before him- opened her gifts.

The shuffling sound of a slightly thicker paper told him Cleo was unwrapping a rag doll with blond curls and blue dress. He also heard that Gladstone –who hadn't been invited in his owner's trip- was getting a little too friendly with a poor chair's leg. _That_ was something he'd have to take care of immediately.

Fortunately, Cleo was too engrossed by her new doll –which Holmes later learned, had been named Phos- to notice Gladstone's odd behavior.

Around midday a slightly dangerous idea landed in Holmes' mind, and as the hours passed he grew more and more convinced. By five o'clock he was helping Cleo inside a carriage. "Take us to Pall-Mall, down from the St. James end."

They knocked on the door of a relatively modest building, just beside The Carlton. Holmes told Cleo to be silent for a few minutes. Someone opened the door for them and they started walking down a hall, through a glass paneling could be seen a room filled with people that, Cleo thought, had to be very lonely at home if they decided to spend Christmas day reading.

She carefully walked on her toes, trying to get a better view, but it wasn't long before she lost interest. Even though she wasn't tall enough to look, something told her there would be no pretty drawings inside those books' pages.

They finally reached the end of the hall and her father knocked on a tall, dark brown door which -by the strong sound that her father's knuckles made as they met the wood- she could tell was considerably thicker than an average door.

The door opened to a tall, thick man who could've resembled the very door had he not been so pale. The man spread his long arms and hugged her father briefly, motioning for him to step inside. That was when the man's eyes fell on her.

He seemed to be unable to decide whether to stare at her or give her father quizzical looks. "Who is this?" he finally voiced.

Her father ushered them inside the little office before entering himself and closing the door.

"Dear Mycroft, let me introduce you to Cleopatra Holmes"

Cleo smiled and turned to the man her father called Mycroft, extending her little hand in front of him.

The man knelt in front of her and shook her hand hesitantly. He analyzed Cleo with wise, grayish-blue eyes.

"She's not yours" he sentenced.

Cleo didn't know what the man meant with those words, but her father's eyes grew large and he hurried to say "That's irrelevant..."

"She looks more like that woman whose photograph you keep locked inside the right drawer of your desk"

Before Holmes could curse himself for not seeing what a terrible idea this had been, Cleo chimed in.

"Where do photographs come from?"

And just like that, Mycroft Holmes became bewitched by the little girl.

"Well... I don't get that question very often" a soft smile threatened to appear in his face. Such a little girl asking such questions, she reminded Mycroft of his junior brother. "Let's see what the dictionary has to say about photographs." He took the 'P' tome of the dictionary from an upper shelve, sat behind his desk and started looking for the word. Cleo came to stand beside him, shyly trying to see the contents of the thick book. Mycroft noticed and unexpectedly decided to pick her up and seat her on his lap. They silently looked for the 'ph' segment together, and Holmes relaxed against the door, wondering if he looked like that when he was teaching Cleo how to read.

"I don't recall seeing a wedding invitation in the mail" Mycroft accused without looking up.

"That's because all of your friends are already married, dear brother"

Mycroft chuckled and shook his head amusedly, "You still can't take a hint, can you?"

"As matter of fact, I did understand the underlying meaning of your comment; I just didn't want to respond"

"Mmm... you're nervous, I can only assume there _is_ a Mrs. Holmes I don't know about"

"There is not, nor will there ever be, a Mrs. Holmes. Unless, of course..."

"You know I wasn't made for marriage" interrupted Mycroft.

"Well, you know that neither was I"

"Yet here I have, sitting on my lap, the logical result of a marriage"

Holmes sighed. He was just getting more and more convinced that the cause of all his lost word-fights was his increasing age.

"Here it is!" Cleo squealed excitedly, pointing out the word "photograph" which was written in slightly bigger lyrics.

"Well done, dear. Now let's see: from the Greek _phos_ "light" and _graphe_ "drawing"... Louis Daguerre and Joseph Nicéphore Niépce... daguerreotype process... the amalgam of mercury and silver..."

Holmes smiled, satisfied. He knew Mycroft would find Cleo interesting, but he never imagined they could bond so fast and so easily over something as trivial as a definition.

* * *

Is this incomplete? Yes, but I didn't want to make you wait any longer

I'm not sure about the first part, i'm not thrilled with it, and is it worth a change of rating? I really don't know, I'm just more paranoid than usual. I'm going through one of those "I'm a good-for-nothing, why am I even still alive? I should just jump out the window and be over with it already" crisis, but don't worry, they never get as far as suicide... _Well duh! would you still be here if they got that far?_ I know, how stupid, I'm sorry...

I hope I didn't offend anyone with my Mycroft... I only just read The Greek Interpreter and took the address description and a few details, but I also added I some things I pictured when I read the story. Again, little crisis over here, please forgive the low self-esteem.

I'm just overtired, i need some sleep.


	26. Illnesses

Oh guys, please don't hate me! I've worked on this for so long and i just hope you don't drop me now.

A family/school/childhood friend died last Wednesday and... God I'm shaking, sorry. I was already a mess but after this, I don't know, in his (and god knows i hate that word) funeral i even smoked my first cigarette, we toasted to him with tequila and yaya gave me this horrified look when I said I wanted a shot too. I'm kinda lost, I don't want to be home. It's only been 5 days but it feels like I've been crying for years...

He had cancer and he was suffering a lot and he's in a better place, i know all that stuff but I just... I mean he was only 16! This guy introduced me to Frapuccinos and breakfast for dinner and he's the one I'd laugh with when the English teacher made a mistake, and he would click his pen and we'd say "Shut up, Tellez" and he'd smile devilishly and click it louder.

And I'm pissed that everyone is posting stuff in his Facebook wall, if none of them posted anything when he was alive, you've got have some balls to do it now that he's dead.

I don't want you to pity me, if that's what this looks like. I just feel like everyone in the world, in the universe should know about the wonderful, amazing boy who played basketball like his life depended on it (and only now I understand why), who would mock me because he played guitar better than me (and only now I can admit it), the boy who had enough strength and brains to fight cancer while still getting better grades than anyone. This boy made my life better by just breathing... if only he was still breathing.

So this goes to him, Jorge Téllez Ramirez, Thank you for being the first one to talk to me in middle school.

RIP

* * *

There was a constant lump in her throat and when she sang, her emotions would get the best of her and she would start sobbing.

But that's not the official reason why she quit singing at her husband's theater.

Freddo had long ago planned for them to move to Berlin, where he had invested in the construction of a very promising Opera house. His small and unsuccessful theater in Paris had already been sold and a magnificent three stories house was awaiting them in Germany. Irene cried and begged him not to take her there.

"But why, dear? It's very far from London, I know, but now that the girl is gone I don't see why you would want to return to a place that brings you so much pain and heartache. No, don't cry, one day you will understand this is for the best"

She was depressed, openly. Very, very openly.

She would cry for days on end, she was moody and often yelled at the service maids, she even sent Freddo to the guest room because she was nauseated to just sleep beside him, and yes, she did say that to him. It earned her a red mark across her cheek and a bleeding nose, but at night she got the whole bed to herself.

She would sigh; she was still tired, just not in a good way anymore. One day she tried to cook, tried to remember the housewife feeling, but it wasn't as fulfilling. She was married to the wrong man, she realized with a heavy heart.

After realizing his mistake, Freddo tried to get her back on her feet, not out of any real affection, he just wanted her to be his stunning trophy wife again. But Irene wouldn't budge. She was depressed, period.

One February morning, just when Freddo was starting to lose his patience, she woke up light-headed and fainted just a few steps away from her bed. She found the perfect excuse for doing as she pleased from then on.

She was _ill, _and she decided she was giving up.

She would hide away inside her room, she hardly ate and at nights you could hear the eco of her gentle sobs in every room of the house. She would sit in front of the open window, letting the little snowflakes fall on her hair and scanning the streets with misty eyes. She wouldn't speak for days at a time, and whenever Annina got a word out of her it was always the same one. "Sherlock" she would whisper, Annina would smile knowingly and keep brushing her hair lovingly.

And speaking of Annina, it was thanks to her constantly informing Freddo of Irene's slow demise that Freddo finally agreed to staying in Paris for more time, "Eight months, a year at the most" he told her. She had rushed upstairs to tell Irene, and the smallest smile formed on her lips. She agreed to eat a little more that night.

But resignation wasn't coming fast enough. She even started praying for a different outcome, a happier one, because some part of her knew that her days were counted.

* * *

Just around new year, the Watsons stopped by to pick up dear old Gladstone... Well, John Watson stopped by, his lovely wife didn't want to risk running into _her. _Watson explained her permanent departure but Mary said she wasn't taking any chances.

And maybe it was just his wife's insistence, but when he walked through his old house's door he actually expected to see her sitting on the living room floor, petting Gladstone while retelling one of her adventures in India, Russia or America for the hundredth time. It was with a sinking feeling that he was brought back to reality, when he saw his friend lying on the couch, plucking absentmindedly at the strings of his precious violin.

The sight was heart-wrenching to him.

Holmes knew he was there, and with a silent sigh he got on his feet and walked up to the spot beside the Christmas tree where Cleo and Gladstone sat.

"How did you do in our absence?" Watson asked, trying without success to sound cheery.

"Why would we do any differently without you?"

Any other time, he'd be seriously offended, but he recognized the disdainful, distant tone in Holmes' voice. That accusation was meant for someone for else...

Trying not to sigh, Watson crouched down beside him and directed his attention to Cleo.

"How was Christmas, Cleo?"

"I got a new doll, and daddy took me to see a man he said is my uncle, but I always thought _you_ were my uncle..."

"You can have more than one uncle, dear"

"Ooh!"

Watson smiled warmly, longingly.

"And how did this fellow behave?" he took to scratching Gladstone behind his ear.

"He acted funny" commented Cleo. "He got close to chairs and..."

"You see, Watson..." Holmes decided to chime in. "Gladstone is feeling rather... lonely" _and he's not the only one_.

"I can keep him company!"

"No, dear. He needs, um, dog company"

"Female dog company" mumbled Holmes. Watson gave him a 'she doesn't need to know that much' scowl. Holmes rolled his eyes in a 'she'll find out eventually' manner.

* * *

"Now tell me, how long have you been married to this woman?"

"I'm not married"

"Alright, then. How long have you _not_ been married to that woman?"

Holmes sighed. "Little over four years"

"Aha! So there is a catch, what did you do? Marry her under a different name?"

Holmes chuckled. Close enough. "I falsified the marriage certificate, actually"

"That's a new one... So there is a Mistress Holmes, after all"

"No, she is Mrs. Nicolasso"

"I don't think you have analyzed the situation properly, it's understandable, when one's feelings get involved in the equation it is most difficult to maintain an appropriate level of objectivity..." Holmes breathed in and opened his mouth to interrupt. "Don't you dare deny it, the only thing worse than being a fool in love is being a fool in denial" continued Mycroft.

"I do not love her, and my objectivity is perfectly fine"

"Is it?" Mycroft stood up and started pacing back and forth, hands behind his back and head sank deep into his chest in utmost Holmes fashion. "Let me help you by making some key questions. When did she marry this 'Nicolasso' person? Was it before or after this false certificate was created?"

Holmes blinked, expressionless, then buried his face in his hands.

"That was all I needed to know" Mycroft whispered to himself, lighting his pipe and bringing it to his mouth as he gracefully sat on his desk chair.

"But it's not legal..."

"Of course it is! That document is just as valid as any other as long as nobody discovers it was falsified"

"You've discovered..."

"I didn't discover, I was told. I am technically your accomplice now. Not that I mind, it's not such a terrible crime. I even find it quite endearing... My brother, finally married in the only logical way he would've ever married, by his own hand and pen. It's even more meaningful than having God marry you, it's a real commitment..." Mycroft trailed of, admiring the patterns the smoke was making in the air. A small frown told Sherlock that he was seriously considering what he'd just said.

"It still is false"

Mycroft jumped a little as he snapped out of his reverie. "But the intention was clear! That woman, Irene Adler... yes, I read your friend's writings... Has been your wife for all intents and purposes for even longer than that paper states. She is Irene Holmes, her marriage to that man is completely invalid and she is, indeed, cheating on you. You can even sue her for committing adultery..."

"And what could I possibly get out of that? All I could want from her I already have and I didn't even have to put up a fight"

"Oh, really? Then why does her absence upset you so much?"

"Her not being here is perfectly fine with me"

Mycroft sighed and shook his head in amusement at the way Sherlock crossed his arms and turned his head away from him. "The problem with lying, Sherlock, is that one lie leads you to another and you forget the previous lie you had to keep, for example, you've already stopped denying that she is your wife. Besides, it is tremendously stupid to keep up a lie when your body language betrays you so constantly. I've lost count of how many times you've made that little pout... did you even know you pout when you're lying?"

Holmes breathed in and out a couple of times before growling "I've been working on that for quite some time"

A knowing smirk exploded on Mycroft's face and he had to suppress the urge to chuckle.

"It's not that bad. You are a human being even if we both have tried to change that. Human beings are bound to have emotions and emotions are ruled by the one we commonly know as love. It's alright to love her, you're not the first one nor the last one to. One day, when you're old and the world's ways stop mattering to you, you'll suddenly feel the need to just feel, without words and without explanations. That day you'll smile and admire her photograph without feeling like you're betraying your pride, that's the day you'll reach happiness. Don't worry, that day is not as far away as it seems, the proof is that little girl sleeping on my couch, who you can now admit to love so openly."

And silence filled the room.

"I bet you didn't expect such wise words to come out of your brother's mouth, did you?" Mycroft chuckled.

Sherlock wordlessly stood and carefully lifted Cleo, cradling her in his arms so she could keep sleeping. "Goodbye, Mycroft" he whispered coolly as he closed the door after himself.

Mycroft stared at the door, pipe in hand, for a few minutes before bursting out into a fit of laughter. _Poor Sherlock_, he thought,_ He always hated it when people make him see sense._

* * *

When Mary woke up that Septemper morning, she was positive her day wouldn't be any different than the previous one. She would cook, she would sweep the floor and she would knit. The only relatively eventful thing would be mending John's old clothes for the charity.

She found two coats, five shirts and one trouser inside an old little trunk that had been sitting in the floor of their bedroom for quite some years now. The shirts had small yellowish stains in the sleeves, surely from his time with Sherlock, one coat was ridiculously dirty, it looked like he'd jumped straight into a coal deposit. Sherlock.

She certainly would've preferred ripped up clothes.

When she gathered it all in her arms an item that had gone unnoticed fell to the floor. She sighed in frustration and dropped the clothes on the bed before kneeling to pick it up. It was a simple gray waistcoat. Mary smiled, she'd been wondering what happened to that particular one.

She laid it out on the corner of the bed and examined it closely, but she just couldn't find anything wrong with it. It wasn't long, though, before she understood why it ended up among old, useless clothes. In the left pocket (a pocket so tiny you could barely fit something bigger than a clock inside) she found a folded up piece of paper. Dog eared, brownish and when she unfolded it she found it to be a photograph.

But it wasn't just the fact of it being a photograph what made the color drain from her face, it was the person in the photograph.

Mary nibbled on her lower lip for the rest of the day, the photograph carefully tucked away in the pocket of her dress.

"John…" Mary whispered when her husband closed the front door. "Can you explain this to me?"

An amused chuckle died in his throat when he saw Irene Adler's photograph in his wife's hand.

"Why her? Of all the women in the world, why did it have to be her?" a single, lonely tear rolled down her cheek.

"Dear..."

"Don't you dare..." her voice was interrupted by a sob. Watson stepped up and held her, she didn't put up much of a fight. "Why does she get all the things I'd give up my life for? She doesn't even want a daughter, she doesn't want you and yet you want her..."

Watson just couldn't hold it any longer and started chuckling. "Mary, you're being ridiculous."

"Hardly. Why do you keep _that_ woman's photograph?"

"Holmes was going to burn it..."

"You should have let him."

"He would have regretted it later."

"He's a grown man, he can deal with his own mistakes."

"He just recently became a grown man, he was still whiny child a few years ago, before Cleo."

"That doesn't explain why you kept it"

"I didn't trust him to keep it safe. But you're right, he's a grown man, and in order to show you how unattached I am to that photograph, I shall return it to him tomorrow first thing in the morning." Mary didn't answer. "And don't worry" he continued, brushing some tears off her cheeks. "The day will come when this house is filled with the laughter of our own children" he kissed her forehead, holding her at arms length. "Speaking of children, they're not going to make themselves..." Watson smiled impishly, which is not something you see everyday. Mary's lips curled upwards in a lopsided smile.

After a very pleasant night, Watson woke up in a good enough mood to face whatever reaction his friend could adopt upon seeing that long lost photograph. His mind played out several different scenarios as he made his way to Baker Street among the mist of that chilly September morning. Possibilities were infinite, but he settled for two particular ones: Anger or pretending not to care. He was really hoping for the latter.

So he was quite relieved when Mrs. Hudson told him that Holmes was out on detective duty and probably wouldn't be home until the next day.

When Holmes wasn't around he never failed to stay a few minutes to talk to Cleo. So he ascended the stairs happily, thinking what a great day he'd have because he didn't have to face Holmes just yet, and it occurred to him that maybe Holmes wasn't the only one who would care about that photograph.

He found Cleo sitting in front of a vanity mirror, raising her head high to try to see her reflection, but the mirror only showed her ocean blue eyes and part of her nose. She was brushing her hair with a determination unlikely of her age, flinching wordlessly as she bravely pulled at a giant knot in the back of her head.

Watson made his presence known by clearing his throat and exclaiming "May I come in, my lady?" in an old-fashioned manner Holmes used when telling her bed time stories.

"Uncle Watson!" her eyes went wide as she hopped off the little stool and ran towards him. She had dropped the hair brush... except it stuck to her hair because of how knotted it was.

Watson chuckled, unwrapping her arms from his legs so he could bend down to her level. "It looks like you might be in a bit of a predicament" he said as he removed the hair brush from her messy hair. He'd once been afraid of using what he called 'big words' in front of Cleo, thinking maybe she was too young to understand what a 'predicament' was, but when he voiced this fear Holmes dropped his violin and started a three hours long explanation about why he should use difficult words when talking to children.

"My daddy brushes my hair for me every morning, but I want to show him that I can do it alone because I'm a big girl"

"But this is a disaster, Cleo. What did you do to get your hair so knotted?"

"I wake up like this every morning, my daddy says it's because I move a lot when I sleep, but I don't remember moving"

"that's because you can't remember what you do when you sleep, there's people who stand up and walk around their houses then go back to bed without even waking up"

"That's impossible!" she giggled.

"No, it's the truth; I've seen many of them myself."

"Wow, when you see one can you tell me so I can see too?"

"Maybe when you're older and can stay up at night, right now it's important that you go to bed early..." a small moan escaped her mouth. "I promise I'll talk to your father..." another moan. "Alright, alright, when I find one of those people I'll come and get you so you can see them." She put on that huge smile that showed off perfectly those pearl white teeth and Watson sighed. The girl was following on her mother's steps too soon for his liking.

"Let's see what we can do about your hair" with that he straightened up and went to sit in the little stool, then helping Cleo sit on his lap he started brushing her hair more carefully. He'd never brushed someone's hair, he had no idea what he was doing and he tried to imagine Holmes' face and desperation when he had to do it for the first time too.

Seeing their reflection made him wander off a little.

Little Cleo was the obvious image of her mother, and some of the expressions on her face, like the way she'd bite her lips and the way her eyebrows knitted together in concentration, resembled a little of Holmes too. But looking past that, he could see himself as her father, and he could see the scene as a typical every day ritual. Suddenly Cleo's hair became blond and straight, her eyes became a soft baby blue and her skin was slightly more tanned. A little Mary, his golden dream.

The loving, dreamy look hadn't quite left his eyes when he got home that night.

When Cleo's hair was smooth and curling prettily as always, Watson snapped out of it and remember what took him there in the first place.

"I have a birthday gift for you, Cleo." He sighed, turning her in his lap so she was looking at him.

"But my birthday is in..." and she started counting with her fingers "one... two... three... three months"

"Well, let's say it's an early birthday gift, then." Cleo nodded enthusiastically. "But there's one condition: your father can't know I gave you this"

"Until my birthday?"

"No, not ever"

"Why not?"

"Because it makes him sad when he sees it, you don't want him to be sad, right?"

"No, no! I won't say a word!" and she locked her lips, throwing the imaginary key over her shoulder.

Watson chuckled, "Alright then" he said. He was almost regretting doing this.

Cleo unfolded the piece of paper with the utmost care, like it was a butterfly's wing she was trying to cure. "What is this?" she naturally asked.

"It's a photograph-"

"Oh! I remember! Uncle Mycroft's book had a whole page about them. The word comes from the greek..."

"I know where it comes from, sweetheart" Watson interrupted. That poor girl was too young to know so much. "But do you know who the person in the photograph is?"

She examined the picture closely for a few minutes before shaking her head. "She's pretty, but I don't think I've seen her"

"Think again, doesn't she look familiar in the slightest bit?"

Cleo pouted. "A little" she admitted.

"Do you know her name?"

"No"

"Well, it's Irene Adler, does that ring a bell?"

"Not really. Who is she?" she turned to him with a frown and that little pout.

"Dear, this is your mother" he answered gently, a soft smile dancing in his eyes.

Cleo blinked, and tilted her head to the side. "What is a mother?"

Now, Watson had seen a lot of terrible things in war, things no human being should be able to endure and yet he had remained strong, he could proudly say that he had not once in his adult life cried... until now that he found himself shedding some tears. His lips were quivering and his throat felt even more knotted than Cleo's hair had been.

"Uncle Watson, are you alright?" she reached up to touch his cheeks and he blinked back a few tears.

"Yes, um... you'll see, a mother is..." he sniffed. What is a mother? He asked himself. There are only so many things he could say... but how could she not know? Had Holmes not even once mentioned Irene? But she had to have heard the word somewhere... how would such a word go unnoticed? How could Holmes keep her like this? Teaching her all kinds of grown up things and not even once mentioning the word 'mother'?

"A mother is person who loves you very much" he began, "A mother looks after you and tucks you in at night and..." but what was he doing telling her about something she'll never have? Wasn't it better if she didn't know what she was missing on? "A mother-"

"Is it like a daddy? Because my daddy does all those things too."

Watson sniffed. "Yes, except a mother is a woman and a father is a man. Everyone has a mother _and_ a father"

"Is Mrs. Hudson my mother, then? She tucks me in when daddy isn't home..."

"No, Mrs. Hudson is your nanny, a nanny is a person who cares for you even though she's not your mother"

"Then if I have a daddy and I have nanny... what do people need a mother for?"

Watson chuckled. She was such a Holmes. "Well, people need mothers because the give you your life... and can't you see how much you look like her? Everyone looks a lot like their mothers."

Cleo looked at herself in the mirror, then at the photograph and so on and on for a few minutes. "Yes, her nose is like mine. And where is she?"

"I don't know, dear. Last time I heard I think she was in Paris"

"Do all mothers go to Paris?"

"No..."

"Do all mothers not live with daddies?"

He flinched, he was hoping she didn't ask something like that.

"Well..."

"Is it only my mother that doesn't live with me and my daddy?"

God, how could she ask those questions so coldly? She was too young to be so rational. Watson started to wonder if Holmes was as good as a father as he thought. Well, he's raising her alone, he has to make some mistakes, right? Even if he won't admit it and even if she can't be too helpful, Holmes needs Irene to come raise her daughter with him. Cleo needs to understand the importance of having a family-

"Uncle Watson? Are you still here?" she waved a little hand in front of his eyes, bringing him out of his thoughts. "If all mothers live with daddies, then why isn't mine living with me and daddy?"

"I don't know..." he whispered, feeling so impotent. "I'm sure she has a good reason, though, and I'm sure she misses you a lot"

"I don't think she does..."

"Oh, believe me, she does. Would I lie to you?"

"No! You're my uncle Watson, you don't lie!"

"Then trust me, she's missing you a lot and she's wishing she could be with you." Watson wiped away the tear stains in his cheeks and blinked back a few ones, praying that he wasn't actually lying to her and that Irene still remembered Holmes and her daughter every once in a while. "Remember not to tell your father I gave you this... you have to hide it very well, somewhere only you can see it, alright?"

"But why can't daddy see it?"

"Well, he loves your mother very much and it makes him sad that she can't be here, that's why he never talks about her"

"Ooh... alright, I'll keep it safe, I think I know where to put it." she hopped of Watson's lap and walked to the side of the bed, she lifted the pillow and laid the photograph on the mattress before putting the pillow back on top of it.

"Mmm... I think we need a better place to hide it" he mumbled. Standing up, he went to the door started counting the boards in the floor, when he spotted the twenty-third row he walked towards it and lifted up a pair of loose boards. He told Cleo to get the photograph and after some indications on how to find the right board and reminding her about the importance of not getting caught, he was saying his goodbyes and rushing out of the house. He didn't think he could stand to see Holmes any time soon.

* * *

The night before Cleo's fifth birthday arrived and Holmes had not been ignoring Mycroft's words.

This time he had a plan, he was going to stand up and speak out… and boy, did he know what he was going to say! Tonight the cycle would break, tonight things would change.

For better or for worse.

So he sat down in his usual spot beside the desk, picked up his violin and started plucking impatiently...

But if he wanted to change things he needed to do it thoroughly.

He stood and started pacing. He read the newspaper again, scammed through old files and even tided up a little bit.

Holmes tried not to go through the whole conversation he had imagined, tried not to make up any more alternative endings. In some she would end up leaving, this time with the most solid conviction of not returning ever again. In happier ones, they ended up together in bed, panting happily and snuggling into each other.

They'd argue and she'd stomp out, they'd argue and come to an agreement, they'd argue and he would wake up alone, they'd argue and she'd calmly say that she hopes he's in a better mood the next year before leaving. Or they could just argue senselessly until the sun came out.

Somewhere inside that stubborn mind of his, he knew that he was imagining all the worst scenarios on purpose, he was making sure said outcomes would not materialize. He was jinxing them.

Not that he believed in jinxing things, of course.

But in his self-determination frenzy, he forgot to jinx the event most likely to happen, the one she herself had predicted.

The perfectly closed curtains didn't give it away, so he only realized it was late in the morning when he heard Mrs. Hudson's distinctive footsteps on the stairs. Holmes came to a stop just in front of the window and reached out towards the curtain. The faintest ray of sunlight crossed the room for just a few seconds. He had paced around the room all night long. She hadn't shown up.

Just like she promised.

He stumbled back and missed the chair by just a few inches, falling on the floor with a loud thud. Laying there, breathing heavily, he finally allowed the knowledge to sink in. Irene wasn't coming back. His eyes shut tight and his face scrunched up in frustration. Why now? When he was sure of what he wanted, when he knew all the right words and all the right reasons, when he had finally gathered up the courage.

Maybe he could... no, he wouldn't chase her.

She had always been free to come and go as she pleased, he had agreed to that condition and he couldn't just go up to her and say "I changed my mind, I want you here all the time."

But they have a daughter now! That has to change things, she has to make some sacrifices...

But he doesn't want her to make a sacrifice, not if he can do it for her-

His hands went up to grasp his hair tightly, almost to the point of pulling it out. He didn't want to get on that chaotic train of thought again, the headache left from the last train wreck was still fresh in his brain. So he breathed in all the air his lungs could possibly retain and made up his mind.

No more Irene. Not in thoughts, not in words, not in paper, not in pictures. Not in music...

And in the ever-present minute of hesitation, he allowed his mind to bring out all the memories of their almost ten years long, intermittent 'relationship'. All the looks, the caresses, the fights both physical and verbal, the sleepless nights, the quiet mornings... and the way her soft hand felt on his cheek.

With a shaky breath everything faded into the back of his mind.

If she was going to keep promises, then so would he.

But how could he keep such a promise when he had to face a living portrait of her everyday?

* * *

Another filler, i know, i hate them myself but they're necessary. But the good news is that this is officially the last filler in this story, from now on all chapters have something eventful to tell (i think), did i mention we have like six or seven chapters left? well, now you know. I'm hoping i can get next chapter before next monday cause i've a lready lost a lot of time and um... yeah, i think that's pretty much it. Hoped you liked it and i hope to see you at the end!


	27. Geraldine

Hey there! I was hoping to post this sooner, but as much as I tried I just can't seem to finish this chapter, so i had to cut it on half, which is something that seems to happen way too often lately.

I want to thank you all for your support! You really didn't need my grieving rant but there you are, actually caring for me :') thank you, thank you, thank you.

I'm already a lot better, I've been doing a lot of reflecting and I've come to understand a lot of things (don't worry, I'm not going to start ranting).

But anyways, I've done the best I could for this chapter and I guess all there's left is for you to read it and decide for yourselves whether it's Ok or not.

Oh, and if you thought I was going to kill Irene, don't worry, I don't let my life influence this story so much.

* * *

It had to be one of the cruelest winters Paris had seen. It certainly felt like that for Irene, but it might have been just the cold air blowing into her face and the crowd of moody people she was making her way through. She'd never been exactly fond of Christmas, and this particular one wasn't helping to change that matter.

After almost a year, the doctor had finally declared her 'cured', and she just couldn't keep hiding the fact the she was strong enough to get out of bed. She had survived and it really was no surprise, she'd always been too strong for her own good. But in the situation she found herself upon her recovery, she could only wish she was ill again.

Once the doctor had authorized her to travel, Freddo wasted no time in preparing their trip to Germany.

Irene knew how little of Freddo's patience was now directed to her, and so she waited until everything was ready for their departure to request her favor. As if to prove that she still had a little luck on her side, the day Freddo sealed the deal to sell their house happened to fall on Christmas Eve.

Freddo had a weakness for Christmas.

"I just want to visit her grave..." she sniffed. "It breaks my heart that she'll be alone in Christmas..." her voice faltered at the end (she was a real master at that) and she broke into a fit of muffled sobs.

That was about all it took.

Freddo turned his back on her and said: "Go now, before I change my mind."

And so she found herself running out the house and into the streets of Paris in hopes that she could catch the last train to London.

It annoyed her to no end, though, that she could not take five steps without bumping into someone, not just because bumping into strangers when you're in a hurry is annoying in itself, but because this time, she was holding on for dear life to her last present. The last gift she would grace her daughter with, in her last trip to London.

And let me tell you, it was something infinitely more fragile than a kimono.

* * *

It was quite a cold night, more so than the usual December chill. But for most, the effect of freezing air against the skin of the face and neck was lost in the warmth of the celebration. Christmas eve, what a joyous day, anyone would think.

Holmes wasn't one to complain about weather conditions but strangely, this year he found himself rubbing his hands together and staying close to the fireplace. His dearest Cleopatra was dancing around the room in a red dress that made her skin look fairer than the snow covering the streets; her hair was tied up in a tight bun with a matching red ribbon, and much to his relief, no mahogany lock of curly hair had dared disentangle itself to frame her face... yet.

It was quite a surprise to see the elegant length of her neck, always hidden behind that mess of curls she got from _her._ Having her hair all tied up suited her, and he briefly weighted the consequences of chopping off all of he hair, she would certainly be beautiful even then. He shock off the idea thinking that she was a little too self-conceited to accept any drastic type of haircut. It was by far the only flaw he could find in her: Vanity.

So he quickly resumed his original plan, which consisted in finding excuses to tie her hair everyday. Hopefully she'd get used to it and when older she would decide for herself that she liked having her hair up.

He also wondered whether she was cold, having her neck all exposed. If she was, she certainly wasn't showing it. Cursing under his breath, he scooted closer to the fire. He just couldn't stop thinking about how cold he was.

The room had a yellow glow to it, for some reason -most likely that sensation of being cold- Holmes had decided it would be appropriate to decorate with candles. Mrs. Hudson was biting her nails and hoping the house wouldn't catch on fire.

But it was Watson and Mary who gave the festivities a true family feeling.

Holmes sometimes thought that Cleo might have been better off with them. In the objective hand, he knew that the simple fact of having both a father and a mother was a huge advantage to any child, and then there were Mary's evident parenting skills. She would have made a wonderful mother, if only she could bear children. It wasn't something he dared to speak with Watson, and he really wasn't used to taboos, but the part of him that cared for Watson understood the pain behind that particular topic. That's two points for Cleo being a Watson.

There was also his lifestyle to consider. Every time he left the house there was the possibility of him not coming back, be it because of a case gone wrong or because of a little bad luck at a boxing match. In the best case he could just end up in the hospital, in the worst, well, he could earn himself a terrible enough enemy who would seek revenge through little Cleo. That counted as several points to Cleo being under Watson's care.

And on the other hand, the hand of emotional ties and selfish reasons... how could he ever live without her? So there was never really a decision to make, Cleo was to stay with him until death decided otherwise.

But back to the holiday, there was a spark Watson a Mary brought with them, and Christmas just wasn't Christmas without them.

So Holmes sat in the living room surrounded by what some part of his mind acknowledged as his family, and thought that maybe Irene's absence wasn't such a terrible thing. He was really hoping he could hold onto that thought for the years to come.

There was only one particularly outstanding gift that evening, and though it was for the Watsons, dear old Gladstone was certainly the most benefited by it.

"Let me introduce you to Geraldine" said Holmes as he lifted the lid of a giant gift box. Out jumped a little bull-dog puppy with a pink ribbon tied around her neck. Watson wasn't sure if having another dog was a good idea, but when he saw the way Mary's face lighted up and the way she knelt by the puppy to scratch behind her ear, Watson couldn't but sigh and ruefully thank Holmes for actually giving a good present.

Holmes was quite proud of himself, and he even found that he wasn't so cold anymore. There was something so heart-warming about making someone happy, especially someone you don't usually accept to liking, as was the case with Mary.

That night, as they said goodbye, Holmes wished them a merry Christmas, and this time he actually meant it.

It wasn't long before Cleo's bedtime arrived, and Holmes had a tale about Saint Nicholas ready to be told. He chose it not because he thought she might like it, quite on the contrary he was sure it was going to bore her to death... or in this case, most likely, to sleep. He smiled and snorted to himself, he knew her so well.

Her hair was spilled all over the pillow and she soon started tossing in her sleep. He admired her for a moment, he obviously wasn't going to send her to sleep with her hair all tight in an uncomfortable bun. Shaking his head in amusement at his own thoughts, he stood and made his way over to the wardrobe. He wasn't going to admit he was cold and he most certainly was not going to ask Mrs. Hudson for a thicker blanket, he was resolute to finding means of warmth all by himself.

That wardrobe... it was now filled with little dresses, from baby to toddler to the too-tall-for-her-age five year old Cleo now was. Holmes would never get rid of any of those dresses under any circumstances. He couldn't help himself as he took out the little gown that was once so pretty and white, before mashed carrots entered his daughter's life.

He absentmindedly fingered the pearls embroidered across the neckline, feeling slightly tempted to rip one off and keep it as a souvenir from happier times, and it occurred to him that one day those pearls could make a beautiful necklace. He was sure Cleo would come to that same conclusion in a few years, when she started caring about jewelry.

The always reliable Big Ben tolled nine somewhere in the distance, and only the soft rumor of the sound reached Baker Street. Holmes sighed and took out a burgundy coloured blanket that looked the thickest, then he closed the door as silently as possible and made his way to his room. As soon as he crawled into bed he fell asleep.

Oh yes, blissful slumber awaited him at the end of what had been one of the nicest days his mind could recall.

Too bad the day ends at twelve.

The sound that awoke him was disturbingly familiar.

At first it mingled with his dreams and his subconscious desire to go back to Cleo's baby years, but as minutes passed and his mind became aware of his surroundings, he was forced into facing the harsh reality. That crying was real and it was coming from somewhere inside that very room.

He bolted up into a sitting position, and to say that he was shocked by what he found would be the understatement of the century.

Right in front of him, sitting in the middle of the room, there was a little basket, and inside the basket an infant covered by a blue blanket; the curtains were carefully arranged to create a spotlight effect upon the living source of the cries. _Once a diva, always a diva,_ a voice in his head said.

God, it was too cliché, he had to turn his face away for a moment. Could this really be happening? He refused to believe it. He stood and took a few steps towards _it. _Not knowing what to do, he gave himself a few moments to focus on the only thought that seemed to be successfully breaking through the shock: Anger.

It enraged him that everything seemed to be like a play for her, rehearsed, melodramatic, ill-fated. Well, at least she didn't leave the basket outside to be discovered when opening the front door, as was usual in these situations. And by the way, her smell was still dancing around the room, mocking him more than ever.

He just stood there, breathing heavily. He had no intentions of going anywhere near... that. But of course, it was curiosity that killed the cat, and without really realizing he took a few steps closer, until he was standing over the noisy visitor.

He tried to keep himself from looking too closely, but carefully tucked inside the blue blanket, a small piece of paper made its shy appearance.

What was her fixation with letters?

He reached towards it hesitantly, doing his best to focus on the letter and not on the little person carrying it. He slipped the paper out, and drawing his hand away with utmost care, he straightened up and took a step back. He couldn't help sighing as he opened it.

_I know what you must be thinking, what a nerve I have to be doing this yet again._

_Maybe you'll never forgive me and I can't blame you for that. Besides, where's the point in saying that I'm sorry? Even though I am, it doesn't matter. I won't be around to enjoy your forgiveness. So if staying mad at me makes your life slightly easier, then please hate me._

_Now, onto the matter of this letter, he weighted 7 pounds and enjoyed a very healthy pregnancy compared to my dear Cleopatra. He was born the 7th of September and according to the doctor, he was full-term, so I guess you can do the math. _

_His name, by the way, is Sherlock. I told you I'd be naming the next one. _

He flopped down beside the basket and ran a hand through his tousled hair, counting back nine months from the 7th of September: August, July, June, May, April, March, February, January, December...

Now _that_ was not a surprise, since the not-so-tiny bundle stared at him with round, olive-brown eyes that, even in the poorly lighted room, he could easily recognize as his own.

* * *

Too cliffy? It really wasn't my intention, but I couldn't put it off much longer, I had to cut it here.

But muahahaha! I so bet you didn't see that one coming! (If you did, this is one of those times when lying can make the author very happy!)

Anyway, it is in my best intentions to post more regularly, specially because I'm on vacation, and I'm doing the best I can here, please don't kill me!


	28. Goodbyes

Hi! I was going to mash this up with next chapter, but since this was ready before that, I thought I might as well post this little thing.

God I forgot to wish you a merry Christmas! Well, too little too late but the feeling prevails, Merry Christmas and a happy new year, I hope you can keep all your resolutions, mine is to sit and stand with my back straight.

And of course to update sooner. We're down to, like, 5 chapters, I think...

But now on with the story.

* * *

He had to be going insane. Either that or he was still dreaming.

The youngest Holmes kept crying, and Sherlock the first wasn't doing anything to soothe him. He just couldn't bring himself to care, he wanted to lay down, even if it was in the cold wooden floor, and go back to sleep. He was exhausted, he just couldn't handle it anymore.

The door opened wide and Cleo walked in, saying "Daddy, that noise doesn't let me sleep" in a very demanding tone.

Perfect, just perfect, exactly what he needed right now. Holmes' face scrunched up and his head dropped to his chest. She started approaching him, hands on her hips and eyebrows knitted together. If he didn't have more pressing matters at hand, he would've thought of how she looked adorable when she was upset. She walked straight past him and stopped in front of the basket. "What is that and why is it making that noise?" she once again demanded.

He sighed, and it took him a moment before he could find his voice. "That's a baby" he muttered hoarsely.

"Oh! I see, and what is the noise?"

"The baby is crying" he answered numbly, staring off into the opposite wall.

"Crying? Oh, poor thing!" Her hands covered her mouth and she knelt beside her father. "He must be sad because he's lonely, can I take him out of there?" but of course she wasn't one to wait for permission. Cleo grabbed the baby and it was obvious by the way she struggled to lift his weight that she would drop him. Holmes snapped out of it and reached towards her, snatching the baby away.

"I want to hold him!" she whined. Holmes just let out a sigh of relief.

"He's too heavy" he explained, his breathing slightly raged from the scare. Cleo crossed her arms and glared at him, but he didn't notice.

He knew what would happen once he held the baby, he wasn't surprised to have a déjà vu as he stared down. His same long forehead, the thin lips, wide, round eyes all too big for such a small creature. How could he neglect his very own child? Besides, he was tremendously relieved to see that the little ruffian didn't look quite so much like _her_... except for that damned curly hair.

"What's his name?" he jumped at the sound of Cleo's voice, who was leaning forwards to look at the baby.

"Sherlock" Holmes answered, a little fondness already noticeable in his voice.

"Like you?"

"Yes"

"Why?"

"Because he is you brother" Holmes explained, saying the words more to convince himself.

"Really?"

"Yes" he whispered.

She seemed to be mulling it over as she sat back. They staid like that, sitting on the hard floor, and the moonlight gave them a sense of tranquility as Holmes' mind readjusted to the situation, to the new member of their family. It was 1897, Holmes was 43 and surprisingly he was a father. For the second time. His life most certainly hadn't played out the way he would've thought.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he registered that it was Christmas day.

"Cleo, you should go back to bed. Saint Nicholas will be here soon and he doesn't like it when children are awake to see him." It was a pretense he had not wanted to keep, but Watson insisted that Christmas was a very important part of childhood. Holmes begged to differ. His brother told him the truth when he was six, and he grew up just fine.

"But he already came"

"What? How can you know?"

"He already brought my gift. Didn't you say the baby is _my_ brother?"

Under different circumstances, he would have dared to laugh. What an unusual gift Saint Nicholas had brought. Well, he always knew Mrs. Nicolasso had a strange taste when it came to gifts...

"Well, you don't want to be on the naughty list next year, do you?"

Cleo sighed, pouted and crossed her arms. "Can I at least sleep here?"

"Of course." He couldn't help smiling, even if just a little.

Cleo climbed into bed and settled in the right side. It was _her_ side, and even when she wasn't around, Holmes respected the space and restrained himself to the left side. By doing this he made sure her scent concentrated on that particular place, on that particular pillow that no one was allowed to touch, or in Mrs. Hudson's case, wash. He sighed a little, now it would be contaminated. But how could he tell his daughter, his sunshine, that she couldn't sleep where she was seemingly so comfortable?

"Daddy, where do babies come from?"

He really didn't need this now; he thought he would have a few more years before he had to face that question.

"They, um, they come from Paris..." he technically wasn't lying, right? This particular baby did come from Paris.

Cleo didn't seem too convinced, but she was tired and she soon settled back down.

He laid little Sherlock beside her and sat on the piece of bed left for him to sleep on. The image in front of him was a lovely one, Cleo was fast asleep and her brother was dozing off, apparently being just as exhausted as his old man. It was all so ideal, so perfect, and it downed on him that there was only one thing missing in that picture.

He figured out then, that there was a way for his pillow to smell like _her_ again, permanently.

He didn't sleep that night. Maybe he should have, for very long day was awaiting him.

* * *

Watson rubbed his eyes tiredly, yawning in annoyance as he went to answer the door. He was having a nice breakfast with his beloved wife and the pounding on the door prying him away wasn't welcome. What could anyone possibly want at eight in the morning on Christmas day?

He shouldn't have been surprised to see Sherlock Holmes when he opened the door.

"What are you doing here? I thought we were going to Baker Street..." Watson trailed off when he noticed the little strolling car.

"Dear Watson," Holmes made his way inside, followed by Cleo, and shut the door for his stunned friend. "Let me introduce you to Sherlock Holmes the second"

"Uh?" was all that left Watson's mouth. His mind was still a little foggy and he had to rub his eyes again, this time harder.

Nothing changed, inside his house there was still a little strolling car and the baby inside didn't seem to be going away anytime soon.

John Watson stood by the closed door in astonishment.

"Holmes... would you mind..." he helplessly gestured towards the baby.

"Explaining?"

"Yes, please." Watson gulped and took a step forward.

"Why don't we sit first?"

Watson nodded shakily. Holmes and Cleo, who was also groggy and almost stumbled across a little table, made their way into the living room. As Watson followed, Mary called from the kitchen: "Who is it, honey?"

"Mary, dear!" Holmes called back, "Will you please regale us with you presence in your lovely living room?" he said in that condescending tone he saved only for his friend's wife. "I don't want to explain this twice" he added for only Watson to hear.

"Holmes, isn't it a little too early for you to..." she stopped at the threshold, taking notice of the vacant look in her husband's eyes. "Darling, are you feeling alright? You're so pale..." she muttered, pressing a hand to his forehead.

"Oh, his perfectly fine, dear, he's just a little shocked" Holmes intervened.

"Then you must have really bad news" she replied.

"Well, I believe it depends on how you decide to view it. I, personally, think it's quite the contrary."

Mary sighed in exasperation. Holmes smirked, he loved getting on her nerves.

"Mary, let me introduce you to my son."

She blinked, her eyes landing on the previously unnoticed strolling car. Her eyes widened infinitely.

"Uh?"

"My thoughts exactly" Watson murmured.

Holmes snorted, he'd tortured them for long enough.

"The story is a simple one. You see, Irene..."

"Of course" Mary huffed.

"Say no more, Holmes. It all makes sense now" Watson sighed, apparently back to normal.

Holmes rolled his eyes and went to sit down, but the only remaining seat was already occupied by a sleeping Cleo. He pursed his lips. Her head was hanging to the side in a very uncomfortable position, he winced to think of the pain she'd feel in her neck when woke up.

Mary was already kneeling by the strolling car, analyzing the sleeping baby. "Is this one yours?" she meant no offense, but couldn't help cringing at the way that came out. Watson was giving his wife a warning glare, but the effect was lost in Holmes' calm answer.

"I'd like to think so, yes."

Watson raised an eyebrow in disbelief. Holmes was in a very good mood. If that wasn't strange enough in itself, he was in a good mood after Irene Adler left him yet again.

"And well? Deductions! You want to tell us what you know" Watson sentenced.

Holmes grinned complacently and went to lean against the wall by the fireplace, hands buried deep into his pockets. "The little fellow was born September the seventh, he weighted seven pounds and was full term."

"And you can tell all that from looking at him?" Mary asked, a sarcastic edge to her voice.

"Of course not, Mary, don't be ridiculous. The note she left said so, that's how I know his name is Sherlock."

"Really? Hmm, I thought it was you who named him."

"Oh Watson, please, do you really think me so self-conceited?"

"Well, then, it was a nice gesture from her."

Holmes rolled his eyes again. "Very nice, indeed" he muttered.

"Come now, don't be so sour. What else do you know?"

Holmes sighed. "She was going to keep him" he explained.

"How can you tell that?"

"She kept him for three months, it was impossible for her not to become attached and she knew it. If she had really wanted to give him away she would've brought him a few days after he was born. That and the fact that she bothered knitting the blanket herself."

"Did she? Well, it seems her knitting skills have not improved much" Mary chimed in. Holmes decided to ignore her.

"What could've possibly made her change her mind?"

"That's what I'm set to discover"

"What? What are you going to do?"

"Something I should've done a long time ago, Watson. I'm going after her"

"You can't do that, Holmes! What of Cleo and Sherlock?"

"Well, you didn't think I just stopped by to tell you all this, did you? They're staying with you and Mary."

"And just what made you believe we would agree to this madness?" Mary intervened.

"Well, then. I'll just have to take them with me like I originally planned."

Watson and Mary exchanged a look, was Holmes really capable of that? They sighed at the same time. "Alright, they'll stay here. But just tell me, what exactly are you planning to do? How will you even find her?"

"I'll start by going to Paris. Believe me, Watson, finding her is the easy part of it."

"Holmes, I understand what her absence does to you. But really, where's the point? You already manage well enough without her, and the more time she's gone the more you'll realize that your life is not as miserable as you thought. Why chase her? Only to have an argument, hurt each other then go your separate ways? Why not leave her be?"

"Watson, she and I have been playing this game for almost a decade. She has won too many battles, but it's time that I win this war."

"And what's your strategy, Coronel Holmes?" Mary asked sardonically.

"I have my ways. And I have the conviction that I won't be setting foot in London unless she's coming with me and I have the certainty that she's going to stay."

"Holmes, this goes beyond a game, you're obsessed…"

"Well, yes! I've admitted a lot of things, I can admit that to. I am most definitely obsessed with her, and to tell you the truth, I would not wish it differently. I've lost her too many times, and I've lost _to_ her for far too long. Damn it all, I'm even raising her children! If anyone is entitled to be obsessed with her, God knows that's me!"

There was silence. Holmes stood by the fireplace, panting slightly and staring at Watson with a fierce gleam in his eye. _Why didn't he say so earlier?_ Watson thought. Those had to be the most human, full-of-sentiment words to ever leave Holmes' mouth, also the most irrationally insane ones. A small smile started creeping into his face.

"Go, Holmes" Watson said, a tint of amusement in his voice. "Find her."

Any other day, Holmes would've questioned his friend's sudden change of mind, but he was in a bit of a hurry since the train was leaving at eight thirty. He decided to take the opportunity before Watson could regret agreeing to his conditions. It was time for goodbyes, then. Running a hand through his tousled hair -which was for some reason more tousled than usual- he said: "Watson, if anything shall happen to me..."

"Oh no, do not give me that!"

"I trust that you will take care of my children as if they were your own."

"Holmes..."

"I'm just being precautious."

"Holmes, if you dare die on this trip-"

"Don't be ridiculous, I'm not going to die, when have I?" he joked

"Well, how about that time you fell from Reichenbach falls? Didn't we think you were dead?"

"Oh, Watson, will you ever leave that behind? It was only once and it's not like I'm going to Germany... I don't understand why that country brings me such bad luck! I mean, wasn't it Bohemia's current King's fault that I'm in this situation in the first place?" Holmes was starting to wander off. "If it hadn't been for him, my path wouldn't have crossed hers and I wouldn't-"

"You wouldn't have a beautiful daughter whom you love to death and a son to follow on your footsteps." Watson stopped him.

"Well, then I guess there are a few things I should thank him for..." Holmes shook his head, as if to get rid of the previous train of thought. "But what I'm trying to say is that I'm only going to Paris, I've been there dozens of times; don't make such a drama out of it."

"I'm being dramatic? You're the one who's saying goodbye like you're sailing off to war or something of the sorts!"

"I _am_ going to war, I just said so, weren't you paying attention?"

"I thought it was a metaphor..."

"It was a metaphor, a very accurate one. The only difference between Irene Adler and a war, is that she's more pleasant to the sight than fellow soldiers dying around you. But other than that, she's far more destructive."

"And yet you want to live with her, I always knew you were a masochist." Mary smirked smugly and Holmes couldn't help shooting her a glare.

"She picked that up from you." Holmes accused, pointing a finger at Watson. Watson just rolled his eyes.

Holmes approached the strolling car and bent down, carefully lifting little Sherlock in his arms. He could feel Mary and Watson's eyes on him and it wasn't a comfortable sensation, he walked towards the far window and turned his back to them.

"Now you, little chap..." he mumbled thoughtfully. "I only met you a few hours ago and now I have to tell you goodbye..." Holmes sighed, trying to understand from where she drew the strength to do this, to leave her children, because he honestly had no clue how to do it himself. "I guess I will be seeing you again... I can't really assure that but..." he bit his lips. He was making things more difficult than they should be.

He felt a little foolish, the child was asleep, he couldn't even hear what he was saying. He must be getting really old to be doing all these sentimentalities, he thought, and with a one-sided grin of appreciation, Holmes leaned down and kissed his son's forehead. Clearing his throat awkwardly, he made his way back to Mary.

"You two better start getting acquainted" he said as he delivered the sleeping baby in Mary's arms. She offered Holmes a genuine smile, Holmes gave her the best one he could manage, and for a moment they felt like they could be friends. The feeling was nice but it didn't last long.

He left the hardest of goodbyes for the end. Kneeling in front of her, he gently shook Cleo awake. She moaned and moved her neck a little, blinking sleepily at him. "Darling, I'm going to be away for some time..."

"It's Christmas, daddy, you can't go..." she slurred on the words, rubbing her eyes with her little fists.

"I know, dear, but-"

"Don't go..." His heart shattered.

"I have to." He gulped and reached out to pull some hair away from her face.

"Where are you going? Why?"

"I'll be looking for someone, in Paris, I'll bring you a souvenir..."

"Paris, that's a nice place, can I go with you?" He couldn't help considering her request. He was already missing her, he hadn't been away from her longer than a day since she was born... and maybe if _she_ saw her, well, it could soften her a little, weaken her defenses... how could she not come with them if her own daughter asked her to?

It was too tempting. But this was between Him and Her. It was more than her being a mother, it was a... lovers –and he shuddered at the term- thing, he guessed. It wasn't fair to put Cleo in the middle of that.

"I'm sorry, Cleo."

She sighed, folding her hands on her lap. A small pout formed in her lips. "Who are you looking for?" she whispered, her voice small like a mouse.

"You'll meet her when I come back" he promised.

"And when will you come back?"

"I don't know, dear." She stayed quiet, and by the way she was fidgeting with the hem of her dress Holmes understood that she wasn't going to say anything else. "Do I get a hug?" he asked hopefully. She nodded once and reached up, wrapping her arms around his neck. He smiled, squeezing her tiny frame against him.

"Daddy, I can't breathe!" she giggled. He chuckled and gave her one more squeeze before pulling away.

"Be good to Uncle Watson and Aunt Mary, but not too good, they need a little excitement in their lives."

Watson chuckled and Mary rolled her eyes. It was nice to be acknowledged, though.

"I'll be like you" she answered. Everyone laughed a little, even Mary.

"I bet you will" Holmes whispered, giving himself one last moment to memorize her face. "I really have to go now" he stated. Cleo nodded again, it was really all she could do. "This is not a goodbye, I will never tell you goodbye. It's just a 'see you later', please remember that..." She nodded once more, biting her lips to avoid crying. Holmes kissed her forehead briefly and stood up, he really had to peel himself away from her.

Holmes took a deep breath and looked around, his eyes meeting Watson's and Mary's for a moment, before he made his way out.

* * *

God, this was all so out of character... and i'm thinking i kinda went back to fillers, but anyways :S

I want to make something clear, this is not Nero Wolfe I'm going for, I have just a few chapters left so I won't be able to develop Sherlock junior's character the way I would've wanted, I did have some things for him in mind, he would, for example, dislike the violin and end up play the cello. But sadly I don't have time for that :(

Sorry, I already talked to much, thanks for reading!


	29. The Sunset

I love you guys so much! thank you for the reviews, the favorites and the alerts, they make me feel all warm inside ^.^

There are three chapters left and maybe an epilogue. I'm freaking out here, I can't believe I'm about to finish my first long fic. OMG I just noticed something, today is exactly a year since I started this story! (check the update/published dates above) happy aniversary, guys! (ok I do realize how messed up that sounds XD) I can't believe it's actually been a year! *sigh* thanks for waiting and coming back to this story, you have no idea how much it means to me... geese, I'm getting sentimental here, sorry, just please enjoy this chapter.

P.S. _Girlwithwings329_, that's a great idea, I already came up with a bunch of ideas for that, thank you ;)

* * *

"He's mad" Mary kept muttering under her breath, Watson was growing slightly annoyed.

"Dear, I'm afraid I support him on this one."

"But it's Christmas! Couldn't he wait a day or two?"

"Mary..."

"That poor girl has been sulking around all day, she didn't even open her gifts." It was well after nightfall and said poor girl was fast asleep in the guest room. Mary was walking around their bed chamber, trying to lull little Sherlock back to sleep.

"She's perspicacious, she would've noticed there was something wrong with her father. Do you think she would want to see him all worked up and frustrated?" Mary pursed her lips and looked away, shaking her head and breathing heavily. She didn't want to start a fight with her husband. John sighed and put down the medical journal he'd been reading. "Honey..."

"Don't honey me." She turned her back to him, blinking back the moisture in her eyes. She cursed herself, she'd been emotional as of lately, and Holmes just had to come and present her with the reason of her emotional turmoil. She was being lent a part of a woman's life she was never going to have, and it pained her to think how much she already loved holding a baby in her arms, but when Holmes was back it all would be snatched away from her. She felt light-headed to only imagine it.

"Mary, he needs closure" Watson explains. As a matter of fact part of Mary understands, but she can't help seeing what it literally is: Holmes is choosing between Irene and their children, and the winner is that treacherous woman who cares not the smallest bit for someone other than herself. It makes her blood boil and her stomach churn.

"He needs to get her out of his system, like any other drug" Watson adds when she doesn't respond right away.

"You know better than me that the opposite is going to happen" she grunts under her breath. As she says it out loud, she gets a whole new perspective of the situation.

What if Holmes never returned? What if he spent his life chasing her? He specifically said to look after his children as if they were Watson and Mary's own. Mary's chest suddenly felt too crowded, and she took a shaky breath as the idea formed itself in her mind. This was her second chance, that's why both Holmes and Irene had left their children behind. They were destined to be _her_- theirs. The family she and John couldn't have...

"You know..." she breathed, feeling lighter than a feather. "You're right, he needs to sort things out..." she trails off, staring down at the now sleeping baby. He looked like Holmes, but if she chopped off those curls... with a few etiquette lessons just in case he inherited his father's anti-social manners... She smiled, she would have to learn how to ignore a few things, but over all, she would be happy to pretend he was really her son.

* * *

He didn't really think of luggage when he planned his trip. Before leaving Baker Street in the morning he stuffed a false nose inside the pocket of his waistcoat; he figured if he needed anymore disguising he'd steal something on the way.

It took two trains and a low class vessel to get him to Paris, and when he did get there, he was sporting a navy blue coat and a sailor hat, courtesy of a distracted young man, and, of course, the false nose and some coal smeared over his face.

He was just stepping out of the train station, and his heart skipped a beat, as per usual, when he spotted her.

She was bathed in soft sunset light, curls trapped in a tight bun except for the few signature locks framing her face, adorning her sleek gazelle neck. It might've been a side effect of her long absence, but in that moment she was the most breathtaking creature on earth, and if he ever doubted he would want to have her by his side every single day, well... he felt foolish for ever underestimating his fascination towards her.

It surprises him how he never has to look for her. She always comes to him, almost like there's a fine, invisible string tied around her waist and the other end is in his possession. It's like he can pull the string and she'll know her presence is needed, no matter where she is. They meet halfway, he thinks bittersweetly.

The moment was shattered when a tall, dark man appeared beside her. She reluctantly linked her arm with his and they approached the entrance, Holmes quickly stepped back inside and blended with the crowd. The man was leading the way, and as they passed by him, Holmes caught a glimpse of purple under her eyes, which where painfully bloodshot.

He had to tear his gaze away, but the image stayed burned on the inside of his eyelids.

Several men trailed after the couple with a never-ending parade of luggage. _Wherever they're going, they're not on vacation_, he thought. The loading process took almost half an hour, Holmes kept an eye on her from the distance. He needed to get himself a ticket, but he wasn't going to risk her getting on a different train.

Tapping his foot impatiently, he waited until she and the man (who he presumed was her husband) had aboarded. Looking over his shoulder constantly, he approached the ticket stand. He might not have brought luggage but there was one thing he knew better than to travel without: money. He pointed at the wagon she had disappeared inside of and asked for a ticket, preferably for the place nearest to said wagon.

He was told the train's destination was Vienna. It could've been headed to China for all he cared.

The train started moving and he jumped on the back of the wagon his cabin was on, which was four wagons away from hers.

Holmes watched the sun finally set in the horizon, and relaxing back against his seat, he thanked whoever was responsible for the beautiful natural phenomenon that his long day was over. He gave himself a few minutes to rest his eyes, trying to figure out a way to see her. The train departed at a quarter past seven, so he estimated they would arrive around three in the morning. He decided he would wait until midnight, then he'd sneak into her cabin.

He didn't measure how tired he actually was, and resting his eyes ended up with him sleeping through the rest of the trip.

A knock startled him awake, someone outside announcing in German something about arriving in five minutes. He gripped his hair in frustration, the last time he spoke German was more than seven years ago, when his final confrontation with Moriarty, before a pregnant Irene and a daughter stole all his attention. He wondered why it never occurred to him teaching Cleopatra a little German, and he cursed under his breath as he tried to recall the language's grammar.

Outside it was freezing, and Holmes flinched as he pulled up the collar of his coat. He hated feeling so physically vulnerable, and as he waited to see her step out of the train, he started considering taking better care of his health, things like sleeping and eating properly would do wonders to his longevity. Irene descended the train, cutting him out of that infamous line of thought; she was wrapped up in an enormous fur coat the color of the very snow, her teeth rattling notoriously.

She was immediately led to a carriage, and she waited inside for the luggage parade to be over. Holmes got a carriage of his own just as the last suitcase was hoisted up. He told the driver to follow them, and they drove for an eternity until they reached a giant Hotel that looked ridiculously alike to The Grand, back in London. Holmes chuckled to himself as he paid the driver and hurried after the couple.

He had had the decency to wash the coal off his face before leaving his cabin, so he looked quite presentable as he entered the lobby. The man was checking them in and Irene was leaning against a wall not too far away. Holmes sat down in a little waiting area, not close enough for her to notice him but not far enough for him to lose them from his sight, pretending to be immersed in one of the books left at the coffee table.

He saw them exchanging a few words, then he gave her the key and they went in different directions. He waited until he could see neither of them before he went to check in. He took room 27 without giving it much thought, and when he got his key he sprinted after her, following her scent and the footprints on the yellow carpet. Good thing it was snowing and her shoes where slightly wet.

He ended up in the second floor, outside room 23, listening behind her door. He waited for a good ten minutes until he couldn't her walking around the room. Also from his waistcoat pocket, he drew out a hair pin, _her_ hair pin, and started on the careful task of unlocking the door. He was almost hoping she would open up, he just wanted to get a sense of familiarity, a comfort zone. The lock clicked open and with two fingers he pushed the door open.

She was on the far end of the all too elegant room, the way she sat in front of a vanity mirror, brushing her hair absentmindedly gave her a melancholic air. Her eyes seemed lost, as if she lost herself in them, bruise-like shadows elongated her face, her cheek bones and clavicles standing out almost painfully. He stared at her helplessly, wondering what exactly was going on inside that pretty little head. She sighed wistfully and leaned her head to the side, he had to refrain himself from sighing as well. She looked so small, so young, this was not a woman, this was a little girl whose favourite game backfired.

She hadn't noticed his presence, that's what worried him the most.

He inhaled deeply, taking silent steps towards her. There was a far away look on her face and he tries to approach her without scaring her. He thought about clearing his throat, going back out and knocking or something of the sorts, but he was much to close to her... his dilemma solved when his reflection appeared on the mirror.

Her lifeless, puffy eyes widened more than he thought possible, her breath hitched and caught in her throat.

"I always knew the day would come when I'd finally break into your room without you catching me" he announced softly. She gulped and closed her eyes, willing the hallucination to go away. Yes, she sees him everywhere she goes, why should this be the real him? She tried to reason with herself, but she opened her eyes and he was still there, staring her down with the slightest bit of amusement.

She managed to take a breath, and locking eyes with him in the mirror she whispered: "Are you really here?" His eyes narrowed, and he thought he saw a flash of fear in her grayish orbs. Giving a hesitant nod, he ventured to take a step closer to her. She didn't seem to believe him, and she analyzed him, flinching when he took another step towards her. "Don't toy with me." her voice came out flat, powerless. He had to stop himself from feeling sorry for her.

"Why not? You never had mercy on me." He felt slightly offended, she was the queen of the games and backing down didn't suit her.

She narrowed her eyes at him, then she shook her head and buried her face in her hands. "You're here for the game" she stated, some firmness already back in her tone.

Holmes smirked, "Ah! I see you still do some thinking every once in a while."

She lifted her face, just slightly outraged. "What's that supposed to mean?" her voice was growing stronger. He'd only have to push her a little more.

"Well, from what I've seen of you in the last two minutes, it seems as though your life is now ruled by your emotions."

She stared at him with an emotion akin to hatred, but not quite so deep. She bit her lower lip and stood up. "Will you take off that ridiculous thing? You don't fool anyone..." She reached out and he caught her wrist. Deep down she was glad for the familiar gesture, it let her know that some things never changed.

"The false nose is staying" he sentenced. She held his gaze but ultimately winced in pain. He released her and watched as she rubbed her wrist. She was too weak.

"What are you doing here?" she spat out rather unceremoniously.

"You were never so down-to-business, dear. What has gotten into you?" He stared her down urgently, intimidating. She looked at the ground, avoiding his eyes at all costs.

"What are you doing here?" she repeated.

"I'm not ready to tell you" he murmured simply, taking another step towards her. Now he was inside her personal bubble and she could feel his breath tickling her neck. She had to take in a shaky breath to steady herself.

"Then I'll have to ask you to leave" she whispered. A pained but playful smirk graced his features.

"I'm having a bit of a déjà vu over here, darling. Where have I heard those words before?" He leaned down and traced the length of her neck with the tip of his nose. She shivered a little and his smirk grew.

"You said that once" she finally reckoned, her breathing fastening.

"It's not a nice position to be in, is it? The vulnerable one." He took one last step and came to be less than an inch away from her. She still couldn't look at him and that pleased him greatly. "The weak one" he breathed in her ear and she shuddered again, the heat radiating from his body was so deliciously familiar, God, it had been too long since he was so close to her.

"To be the one that will crumble down with only one touch..." his voice was barely audible, he was practically not breathing, he needed to keep his own cool as he brought the back of his hand up to her cheek. "Look at you." His voice was now harsh, accusing. "You're trembling." He drew his hand away brusquely, then turned around and started pacing the room. "The Irene Adler I know doesn't tremble" he reclaimed, managing to sound disappointed.

"That's because the Irene Adler you knew is gone" she quickly recovered, brushing away the ghost of his touch from her cheek.

"Well, would you be as kind as to tell me where I can find her?"

She produced a poor excuse of a chuckle, settling back down in her little booth, in front of the vanity. "Oh, Mister Holmes..." She shook her head and started brushing her hair again. "She never left Baker Street."

"What do you mean?" he swirled around and met her gaze in the mirror.

"Ah! So now you're ready to drop the game. Too bad, I'm just getting started." She felt so bitter, she had missed him so, and now he comes only to thrash her around some more, make his absence worse. Because he was just as bitter, and he would leave her there, in her hidden misery. She guessed she couldn't blame him, she was being paid with the same cruelty she once gave him.

She never imagined it could be so heart shattering to be abandoned by someone.

He nodded, knowing she'd see it in the reflection, and went to sit beside her. She ignored him and kept brushing her hair, which was perfectly smooth by now. They stayed like that for a long while, the tension decreasing, the silence becoming more comfortable with each heartbeat. 71 strokes later, Irene decided her hair was finished and she set the brush down. "He is your son." She whispered simply.

"I know, I noticed." he grinned. "I just wonder, how did you come up with such a peculiar name for him? It's quite an original one..." she only gave him a teary smile and rolled her eyes. "Why name him after me?" he whispered, removing some hair from her shoulder to expose her neck.

She turned to him, searching for his eyes. "Think of it this way: He will only add more achievements to your legend."

He chuckled and shook his head. "What if he doesn't want to be a detective?"

"Then you're going to have a lot of trouble keeping him clean. You know, if he's not like you then he'll be like me…"

"Oh no, no son of mine will become a thief."

"And what makes you think I will let my child work for the law?"

"Apparently you won't be around to impede that." His statement successfully brought them back to the main topic.

"Holmes…"

"You could come, we'll place our bets and you could influence him into whatever you want…"

"How about I let him be and I drop by later to see the outcome?"

"Adler..."

"Holmes..."

They were having a little staring contest. Holmes was quick to lose, his eyes slipping to her lips. She sighed and looked away.

"Why?" he whispered, burying his face in the crook of her neck.

"Why what?"

"It's nothing, forget it."

"What were you going to say?"

"I don't know why I even had the thought, just let it go."

"I thought you wanted to be honest..." He staid silent, rubbing his forehead against her shoulder. "Just say it, how bad can it be?"

"Why do you love him?" His voice barely made a sound, and he only hid his face further into her neck.

"Don't start that again."

"Stop denying it, there's no point…"

"Don't do this, don't make me say it unless you're willing to say it back."

"Say what back?"

"Oh, you know what I mean." She turned her head and shook her shoulder, trying to make him lift his face. "Who's going to give in, Holmes?" she challenged. "It all comes down to that."

"This isn't between you and me anymore..."

"Well then, give up the game if you're willing to. Tell me why you came here-"

"I'm here for you!" he snapped, his dark eyes suddenly boring into hers with raw intensity. "I want you! Can't you see?" he gripped her arm tightly and searched her eyes for a spark of understanding, of realization. "I'm here to take you home, to Baker Street, with me which is where you bloody belong!" he hissed, his face so close to hers it was making her go cross-eyed.

"You know that's not true" she whispered, breaking away from his gaze, a single tear running down her cheek. Holmes barely opened his mouth and she cut him off, "You've been wrong all along... We were fools, my place was never with you. I learned that the hard way" she added under her breath.

"Explain..." he mutters, his eyes fixated on her face as if he was trying to read her mind.

"I'm not yours, and that drives you mad. That's the way we work and we work because we've been doing it that way..." her voice was flat, emotionless. His grip on her arm loosened a little.

"It's more than that..." he mumbles softly.

"It shouldn't be." She lifts her face, a coldness unlikely of her taking over.

"Why not?"

She never responds to that.

He didn't bother holding her gaze. His head dropped to his chest as he tried to recall what it was exactly he had planned to say in this situation, but nothing came to his mind. Another great monologue was lost in the intensity of her presence.

"Sherlock..." She whispered oh-so-hauntingly, and he considers getting some narcotics and running away with her sleeping body. She'd poisoned him several times, now it was his turn.

But he didn't want it to happen that way.

"Sherlock, look at me..." she insisted, grabbing his cheek in an attempt to lift his head. "Things are not in our hands anymore, it's too late..."

"Is it really?" he says bitterly.

She bit her lower lip, like she didn't want the words to leave her mouth. "Yes, it's been too late for a long time now..."

"I'm sorry, I can't pinpoint the moment it became 'too late', can you?"

"Yes, I can." She heaved a long, wistful sigh. "And just so you know, it was all my fault."

"How is it your fault?"

"I'll explain someday..." she looked off into the wall. He chuckled darkly.

"So that means we _will _meet again" he stated, forcing a sour smirk into his face.

"Most likely" she said under her breath.

He shook his head in disgust. "I'm tired of this." It wasn't a complaint, it was an order.

"I am too"

"You don't really expect me to believe that, do you?" he turned to glare at her, but she kept her eyes fixed on the side wall, the back of her head turned to him. She didn't want him to see her blinking back tears and pressing her lips to avoid them from quivering.

He nodded to himself and made to leave.

"I wish you… nothing but the best." He stammered a little. "Fare thee well, my dearest…" he whispered over his shoulder, and his voice broke at the end of the sentence.

A cry died in Irene's throat as she slipped down beside the vanity, she leaned down and rested her forehead against the carpeted ground, her back arched, her chest rising and falling frantically with sobs.

Holmes laid his hand upon the door knob but dared not turn it. The sound of her soft whimpers cut a hole through his chest and his jaw tightened. He felt something akin to an apology rising in his throat and burning his tongue, but even after everything he couldn't find the strength to open his mouth and let it out.

It seemed as though he still had some pride to lose.

Footsteps down the corridor caught their attention then.

Irene gasped, sobbing once more before scrambling to her feet. She tried to calm her breathing as she grabbed Holmes' arm. "It's him, it's him" she chanted, pleading with him as she dragged him to the closet. He didn't put up resistance as she shoved him inside the empty space and closed the sliding door. He was left with the mental image of her flushed, tear-stained face.

He heard her roaming around the room, sniffing and whimpering, and he imagined her sitting in front of the mirror, wiping her face with a silk handkerchief and putting on some new make up. He winced at the dreariness of the scene, shaking his head in denial. How could he just show up and hurt her so much? He felt like punching the wall.

"Oh my, he's drunk..." he heard her mumble. Straining his ears a little more, he heard the rattling of keys being dropped and some curse words being slurred out. The door made a nails-in-chalkboard sort of sound before being slammed again.

"Have you been crying?"

She gave him a short-lived "No" but her voice still quivered.

He heard some movement around the room, it wasn't long, though, before Irene slid the door open. As she led him out, Holmes couldn't help glancing at the sleeping man, and in the two seconds he had to analyze him, he noticed only one thing. Luckily, I was the right thing to notice. His shoulders and chest barely moved when he breathed, it was his abdomen that rose and fell, which is not at all the way a regular person breathes.

Only three groups of people breathed like that: Newborn babies, swimmers and trained Operatic singers.

It all pieced together then. The man's arms were not as muscled as a swimmers, and he recognized the steadiness with which he would inhale and exhale from watching Irene sleep.

"It's him" he mumbled absently once she closed the door and they stood alone in the hallway. "It's him, the Italian Tenor, the man you were escaping..." he honestly felt a little light-headed.

"Holmes..."

"Stop saying my name like that's going to solve everything!" he hissed, his jaw tensing. "You were running from him, why did you marry him?"

"I'll explain... but not here." She murmured, looking around the hall nervously.

"Irene" he warned.

"Please, you can't come here, it's dangerous-"

"You used to like danger."

"Not this kind of danger!" she snapped fiercely. "Please go to your room, I'll go there later and I'll explain everything" she ordered.

He gave her a once over and mumbled "I don't trust you."

She huffed and gave him the truest bit of a smile he'd seen from her so far. "I know you don't." She combed a hand through his hair a little too lovingly, and he couldn't believe he was doing it but he leaned in and kissed her forehead.

"Room 27, come before sunrise" he breathed against her skin and stalked away.

* * *

Gah, I don't like this! it was supposed to be like... volcano! Ugh, I wish I had the guts to delete it all and start over... i totally feel like i blew it this time... but there's really no time for that, I have a week of school break and I really want to finish this before I go back to school... I have to shut up now XD


	30. The Blame Game

Sorry guys, I've been meaning to update this for ages, but I just had a major editing crisis, this chapter has been re-written more times than I can keep track.

I love countdowns: Two chapters (and the growing possibility of an epilogue) left!

* * *

She found him stretched across the floor, beside a wide open window. His body was shivering visibly from the breeze and the lack of movement, but his eyes remained shut and his face calm; for a moment she thought he was asleep, but as she silently shut the door, his mouth opened to release a sigh of acknowledgement.

It was a good thing nights were longer in winter, for she had taken quite a long time to show up.

Irene tip-toed across the room and placed herself under the silver spotlight the moonlight was offering her. He opened his eyes lazily, squinting at the brightness, then he turned his head in her direction, pretending as if he couldn't care less. Loose dress shirt, hair all combed up and her skin so pale the very moon would seem sun-kissed in comparison. She was painful to even look at, could she ever get any more beautiful?

He had to tear his eyes from her. "Save whatever you're going to say. I'm not leaving without you."

"I know, that's why I'm here. I'm coming with you."

Holmes sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "No, you're not" he sentenced, moving to stand up. "That's why you're dressed like that, makes it easier to jump off the train." He dusted some non-existent dirt off his shirt, all to avoid making eye contact with her as he explained: "If you were really planning to come with me, you'd be wearing your favourite dress, the only one you weren't willing to leave behind, and your corset would be bursting at the seams with hidden jewelry."

Swallowing a chuckle, she looked down at her boots. "I was such a fool for thinking I could trick you…" she sighed sardonically, pushing herself off the wall and walking up to him. "You know me well," she whispered, reaching up to arrange the collar of his shirt. "But not as well as you think you do" she added, and her breath brushed against the skin of his cheek, making him square his jaw.

"And whose fault is that?" he said calmly. Her hands rested on his shoulders as she searched for his eyes.

"Thoroughly mine. I always thought that, as long as there was something you didn't know about me, there would be a reason for us to meet again. You're just too into the mystery."

"That's one way to put it…" he tried not to glance at her out of the corner of his eye.

"Well, I'm here to set you free" she announced. "I'll tell you everything, and you'll be surprised at how easy it will be to let go of me then."

"That's never going to be easy, no matter which way you look at it. No wonder I decided not to let that happen again." And so, he finally looked her way, as if to reinforce his words with the determined glint in his eyes. She sighed and let her hands fall to her sides, he probably didn't realize it, but his permanent mask of coldness only made it all the more enticing when he let an emotion through. Or maybe he was fully aware of it and was using it in his advantage.

Holmes smirked, as if he could foresee her train of thought. After years of lost battles he found the perfect weapon against her: sincerity.

"If you know me well enough to predict that I'll escape from you at some point, how do you plan on making me stay with you?" He reached out to try and pull a curl behind her ear, but it bounced right back to her face.

"I'm planning on convincing you that you_ have_ to stay with me, of course." His smirk widened and he cocked his head to the side, as if it was something ridiculously obvious.

Irene decided that, as long as he refused to listen to her, she would humor him. "And how will you know that you convinced me?"

He shrugged. "I expect a much dreaded melt-down, not unlike the one you had a couple of hours ago, except that this time you'll be crying for the right reasons."

She laughed bitterly and took a step closer to him. "I'm a pretty good actress, we could skip the convincing and jump right into the crying. If we keep it simple, we might catch the next train to Paris." She had laid a hand on his chest, her voice lowering as her face closed up on his.

"Stop mocking me. I'm serious" he hissed, bringing a hand to the vase of her neck to put some space between them.

She tried not to roll her eyes. "Look, I'll go with you to the station, we'll say our proper farewells and well never see each other's face again, just like you always said it should be…" she added the last part in a low, far away voice, running her fingers lightly over his shoulder.

"That's exactly the problem. I have to see your face everyday whether I like it or not."

"Then get rid of that stupid photograph" she whispered, turning for the door.

"Oh, believe me, I burnt it the day you left." Or at least that was what he intended, but she didn't need to know that Watson had saved it in the last moment. "But you forget about the living portrait you left behind. Do you want me to get rid of her too?" She stopped mid-way, her back to him and her face raised toward the ceiling. "And I'll bet," he continued, his hands behind his back as he approached her, "that that's the same reason why you left the newest addition to our family with me. Wouldn't it be dreadful? Having to see _my_ face everyday?"

He came to stand beside her, pleased by the way her hands balled into fists and her breathing raged.

"You don't know what you're saying." She shook her head, as if to clear her mind.

"Well, isn't that why you're here? Tell me something I don't know" he challenged.

Irene shut her eyes, murmuring through gritted teeth: "He didn't want me to keep him. He said he would give him away when I let my guard down. I had to lock us inside our room and sleep with a revolver in my night stand for three months. I waited until Christmas to tell him that I wanted to take the baby to the orphanage where I had grown up, in London. Of course I didn't grow up in an orphanage, much less in London, but I wasn't going to tell him I was leaving him with you." By now she was glaring at him through narrowed, tear-filled eyes, her lips started trembling. "I would have _loved_ to be able to see your face everyday" she whispered fiercely.

Brows furrowed, Holmes nodded to himself and looked down, scrambling his brain for something to say.

"Was that something you didn't know? Do you want me to go on, or were you hoping to spat out another accusation on a particular matter?"

He had lots of accusations on a lot of different matters, but he really didn't want to screw up any further.

"Come now, Sherlock. I've taken quite a few blows from you, what's another one?"

He bit his lips and flinched. "You could've seen my face everyday had you not left us." He said it fast, like he didn't want her to understand the words.

Irene scoffed loudly, that was quite an old argument.

"Haven't you pieced it all together yet? I regretted leaving you and Cleo from the moment I stepped outside your house, by the time I reached the train station I was ready to turn around and go back. I sincerely stopped caring for whether I'd ever go out of London again."

His head snapped up to give her a glare of pure disbelief. "Then why didn't you go back?" he whisper-yelled, all the blood in his body suddenly heating up. "I've been waiting for you for almost a decade, you say you wanted to stay with us. But what did you do instead? You married another man! How am I supposed to believe anything that comes out of your mouth?"

"Will you ever let me finish? You never believe me because you only hear half of what I have to say!"

Holmes grounded his teeth, his nostrils flaring as he tried not to let the anger get the worst of him. "Speak, then" he hissed.

"I was just exiting the station, I never saw it coming. I felt a sharp pain in the back of my head, and next thing I knew I was waking up in a train cabin; he was leaning over me with a smirk that made me sick to my stomach. He threatened to kill both of you if I didn't marry him, what was I supposed to do?"

In a second he was nose to nose with her, his eyes burning into hers with barely controlled rage. "You were supposed to trust me! Wasn't that what you went to me for? You wanted _me_ to protect _you!_"

"_Her_, I wanted you to protect _her_!"

Holmes staggered a little, all his suspicions from too many years ago suddenly confirmed. "So you planned it..." It came out more like a question. "You went to me with every intention abandoning your child..."

"Is that what you wanted to know? Well, yes, I did!" she shouted, her face red with an anger she knew she wasn't entitled to feel. There was a dead silence as they strained their ears for steps on the corridor or voices from the continuous rooms, luckily, they hadn't woken up the other guests yet. "That was indeed what I wanted and before you say it, I never lied to you," she continued in a low whisper, his brows were knitted together in that 'how so?' fashion only he could achieve. "I told you I needed you to protect my child, I never specified for how long."

His mouth dropped a little, "You" he sneered, pointing a finger to her chest, "are unbelievable in more ways than one person should ever get to be." He dared to poke her shoulder lightly, even though he felt like he was seconds away from physically hurting her.

Irene turned her head away, blinking back tears. She couldn't bear the look on his face. "The least I could do was protect _you_ so you could keep protecting _her_." She was surprised that her voice, thought low, came out steady.

He threw his arms up, as if to not bring his hands to her neck and strangle her. "I do not need protecting! For God's sake, Irene, when will you understand that? When I actually die trying to get you out of these situations?"

She choked on a sob at the very thought of him dying.

"It might be wrong but I do it for you! Can you not see that?" she shrieked, her voice several octaves higher than her vocal range should allow. In the back of her mind, she acknowledged the little tug at her vocal strings and an alarm went off, yet her voice retained the falsetto as she kept speaking. "You know I'm smarter than this, but when someone puts your name and 'dead' in the same sentence, my brain shuts down. I can't bear the thought of anything happening to you!"

"And from that thought, can you imagine what goes through my mind when I wake up to find you gone? Do you think _I_ can bear the though of anything happening to _you_?"

"How would I know?" her voice (still high-pitched) broke several times. "I have admitted it before, you are my weak spot! In that matter, I'm the sincere one. When have you ever mentioned any affection you have for me?" He only then noticed how the moonlight gave her eyes that beautiful blue tilt he so rarely got to see, and his gaze on her softened, his anger starting to dissipate, even if just a little.

"My actions speak louder than your words" he answered simply.

"How so?" she sighed shakily.

"Who's the one raising your children? Who's the one waiting for you? Who's the one whose blood boils when reminded that every night you sleep in another's bed? Who is the one that won't give you up even after a decade? Who is more of a husband to you?"

"What about _my_ actions? Don't they count at all?"

"What have you done?"

"Every year, the fact that I kept going back, all I wanted was to make you understand that it wasn't my decision, that if I wasn't with you it wasn't because I didn't want to."

"Well, that's precisely what words were invented for."

"Ah, there it is! Words! Words do count more than actions! Words are precise, I love you or I don't love you. It could've been as simple as that!"

"Then why didn't you use your precious words?"

"I couldn't tell you what was happening, you would've done something reckless..." Alright, he couldn't really deny that. "But since you're probably going to do something reckless anyway, I might as well tell you. He has agents in London. They know where to look for Cleopatra."

"She's staying with Watson."

Irene scoffed, "And you honestly believe they don't know about Watson?"

He swallowed, hard. For so much fighting Irene, there were still bigger and more important matters to attend to.

"Alright," he nodded, looking at the wall in front of him so he could concentrate, "then we'll just have to be cautious. He can't find out I'm here until we have figured out what we're going to do..."

"We?"

"Yes, we."

"You were yelling at me ten seconds ago" she whispered, suddenly sounding as tired as the bags under her eyes made her look.

He chuckled half-heartedly. "I cannot begin to fathom how much you enrage me, but how many times will I have to say it? I'm not leaving without you."

"Sherlock..." her voice was lost even in the silence, her eyes squeezing shut to keep the tears at bay.

Holmes sighed. "I knew you would end up crying" he mumbled, his arms closing around her shaking frame. "Are you going to give in now?" he breathed into her hair, allowing himself to savour the smell of her perfume again. She only nodded against his chest, clinging to his waist as she ruined his shirt.

They watched the sun rise in content silence, his fingers forever obsessed with her curls, hers drawing patterns over his chest.

They weren't ready to go back to reality, not even when she broke the silence. "We're leaving for Berlin at noon."

He nodded pensively, "I'll follow you" he stated. Her lips trembled before settling into a smile.

"And what are you planning to do?"

Holmes shrugged. "Blackmail him."

"With what?"

"I don't know, but I'm sure I'll find something. Every man has something they want to hide from the world."

"What do _you_ want to hide from the world?" she whispered, small as she felt in his arms.

He chuckled, staring adoringly at the top of her head. "Right now, nothing."

* * *

God, Cheesy much? I don't know anymore, I'll let you be the judge of that.


	31. Withholding Information

Oh my god, please, please don't murder me. I don't deserve your indulgence, but I beg for it.

I know that it's been two months, but they've been chaotic as hell. I've been alternating one week of some silly illness like flu or a cold (I'm a cry-baby with these things) with one week of school, in which I would have homework overload because of the whole week I'd missed on. Yes, this went on for the whole two months. It was a vicious cycle of destruction that my parents attributed to depression, which I don't have.

If you're still reading this story even though I've been a crappy updater and my Author notes are annoyingly long, THANK YOU SOOOO MUCH!

Now, Countdown time! YAY! So it's down to one chapter and a sort-of-epilogue, which is more like a small chapter to wrap it all up nicely ^^

P.S. Contralto is the lowest singing voice in a woman, soprano is the highest. Sopranos have a wider repertoire and are usually protagonists, since there are obviously more of them. They say contraltos only portray "witches, bitches, or britches" but that's not true, Angelina in La Cenerentola (Cinderella) is a contralto role. But I can't really see Irene as Cinderella...

* * *

"Irene" he breathed down her neck. "It's time to get up, darling."

A sigh slowly expanded her ribcage, only to deflate it moments later as the air escaped her lips, sending her sweet breath to caress his face. "What's the plan?" she questioned later, when her brain was oxygenated enough to form a coherent sentence. Dropping one last kiss on her forehead, Holmes jumped off the bed, figuring that if he staid there any longer he would not be able to concentrate.

"What's reason for you two going to Berlin?" His tone was almost business like as he gathered his clothing. Irene sighed again, sitting up in bed and rubbing her face with her hands.

"He has invested in a very promising opera house" she responded coldly, catching on the 'we need to focus' attitude he was taking.

Holmes stopped in his tracks for a moment, thrown off yet not exactly surprised. "When does this opera house open?"

"New year's eve."

"That's five days away, we'll have to act fast. We need to be gone before that show."

Irene stiffened visibly. She sat in complete silence as he pulled on his clothes.

"You should be getting dressed too. It's about nine in the morning, he should be waking up any moment now. He can't find you gone." He paused and turned to look at her, having just realized her quietness. "What's wrong?"

"Why do we have to leave before the show?"

"Well, I'm guessing you're scheduled to perform" he answered simply.

"Yes, and how is that a reason to leave before the show?"

"After the show, word will spread that Irene Adler is going back to the stage and that she's now married to a retired tenor who invested on the very theather that saw her comeback. Won't it be a scandal if, after the show, you suddenly disappear? Besides, if the show is a complete success -and if they have you, it will be-, he will be less than likely to let you go." There was silence, as Irene didn't really know how to retaliate. "By the way, what are they presenting for the opening?"

"Die Walküre" she said sourly, turning her head away from him.

"Ah, Wagner. Schwertleite, is it? It's a pity, I don't think they can find a better contralto for that role."

Irene bit her lips together, repressing the sudden wave of anger towards him. "He's not going to let me go either way, so why don't I just do it?"

"Oh, he will let you go. I'll see to that" he somewhat tried to soothe her, though it came out too dark to sound reassuring. She just kept looking away. Holmes flopped down on the bed beside her and grabbed her face between his hands, forcing his gaze on hers. "You want to have that last show, you're not ready to give up that part of your life yet." He intended it as a question but it came out more like an assessment.

She sighed, shaking his hands away and lowering her head. "I want you, I want our life, and if it means I'll never get to sing again, then so be it."

Holmes nodded in amusement, trying once more to lift her head. "And that is wonderful to know. But you also want to sing, and I want what you want. So if you want to sing, I want you to sing. And you will, I'll take care of whatever comes after that." He was rubbing his thumbs across her cheeks, trying to smooth off the still visible tear stains from the night before.

"Coming to think about it, I don't think I ever go to see you perform. How can I spend the rest of my days with Warsaw's best contralto if I never even got to hear her sing?"

Irene rolled her eyes but eventually gave in, leaning in to place her lips upon his.

"Where's all this kindness coming from?" she whispered, a small smile finally gracing her features.

"The knowledge that at the end of the day, after everything, I finally get to have you. It puts me in quite a great mood."

"But this isn't over yet... Things could still go wrong..."

"I shan't allow it. Not after everything I've been through for you."

Irene bit her lips, doubtful. The determination hadn't left his eyes and somehow, for a moment, she knew everything would work out. "I trust you" she mumbled, stroking his scruffy cheek absently. He leaned into her touch, covering her hand with his.

It took them a couple of minutes to snap out of it and go back to redressing.

"As soon as we arrive, I need to obtain a violin" he commented, buttoning his shirt.

Irene stopped pulling on her boot and whipped her head towards him. "Don't you dare consider it. Don't even think about considering it, you cannot do that. I won't allow it" she hissed fiercely. Holmes raised a mocking eyebrow, buttoning the cuffs of his shirt. Something about his stance told her that he would not be giving in anytime soon. "He'll recognize you."

"No, he won't. We only met twice, and both times we were in the middle of a fight, in the middle of the night, in a dark room..." he kept adding, as if to make it sound obvious.

"Need I remind you that you're known all over Europe?"

"Only a name and no picture, darling." He smirked, winking at her. She pursed her lips, finished dressing and made to leave. "Though I do have a parting query..." She stopped at the door way, checking both sides of the corridor before turning to look at him, expectant. "Whatever happened to my robe?"

She gave him an enigmatic smile and, trying not to roll her eyes, exited the room.

* * *

He caught her eyes across the station, she offered him a soft smile that didn't quite leave her face once she looked away. His heart gave a leap and he fought the urge to sigh.

The four hour long trip to Berlin seemed eternal. Holmes distracted himself by analyzing those around him in the dining wagon. He didn't eat anything himself, of course. Once they arrived in Berlin, Holmes followed Irene and her husband closely, if only so he knew where their house was. After making sure that they wouldn't come out and head somewhere else, Holmes left to make his own arrangements.

The next night, Irene was sitting in the front row of the spotless, freshly built (though currently empty) theather, having just finished rehearsing her one solo in the entire opera for the first time. She felt proud that she could still make some jaws drop with her performance. But she was tired and really felt like she needed some sleep. She had her arms crossed over her chest as she tapped her foot impatiently. Her husband approached her and she made to stand up. He held a hand out and sat beside her.

"One of the violinists has left town, something about an ill _mamma_." His accent was thick as ever, and when around her, he had this habit of using words from his mother tongue, knowing full well that she would understand. Irene's stomach churned in repulsion to think that she had once found that attractive. "He sent his eldest son in replacement, claiming that he himself trained him." At this, he rolled his eyes. "The other investors have left," as if to prove his point, his voice echoed in the empty space, "leaving me to sort out whether he's good enough for the job."

Irene slumped back on her seat, crossing her legs to demonstrate her annoyance. Freddo smiled wistfully and turned his attention to the stage.

A painfully shy young man, most likely in his twenties, slowly made his entrance. "Avanti, avanti" Freddo urged him.

The man stopped and directed them a clueless look. Irene rolled her eyes, nudging Freddo while whispering "Germany, remember?"

Freddo nodded and cleared his throat. "Vorangehen, kind, Vorangehen." At this, he lowered his head in embarrassment and hurried to the center of the stage. He awkwardly accommodated the instrument on his shoulder, then he raised his bow and started playing.

There isn't much to be said about his performance, except that it left both Irene and Freddo speechless.

After he was done, there was a pregnant silence. Then Freddo rose from his seat and said: "Welcome to the orchestra." He turned to Irene and offered her his arm. She made no move to get up.

"I'm going to need a moment" she breathed. This seemed to please Freddo.

"I'll be waiting outside, cara." He tapped her shoulder and made his way out.

The young man was still standing in the center of the stage, his eyes intent on the many creases that adorned the boards of the floor.

Once she was sure Freddo had exited the building, Irene stood and went to join him on the stage. He did not look up -even though he probably heard the clicking of her heels- until Irene stopped in front of him. His glinting eyes met hers, and he had to bit the inside of his cheek not to smirk when she released a sigh of relief.

"Do you see the wonders of a false nose now, darling?" he breathed, leaning in to place his lips on hers.

"How in hell did you manage to look so... young?" She demanded, stepping away to get a better view of his disguise.

"The nose served to make me look unlike myself, then a clean shave and longer hair did the rest of the trick, and for that, I have to admit, I did need some extra help," he lifted his hat to show her the thick, light brown wig.

Irene frowned, torn between laughing and slapping him for not letting her in the con.

She settled for inquiring some more. "How did you get rid of the violinist?"

Holmes shrugged. "Paid him to let me have his place in the orchestra for a few days." Irene nodded angrily, pursing her lips. "Did you know that you look lovely when you pout?" He grinned, willing her to drop the matter. "Don't get all prideful on me, you know why I'm doing this."

Irene kept nodding, letting her eyes wonder around the theather. Holmes rolled his eyes silently and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her head to rest on his chest.

Her voice was muffled against his shirt. "I don't like not recognizing you."

"It's just a couple of days, then it'll all be simple again" he soothed, smoothing circles across her back. "I heard something about the leading soprano being replaced too..." he said after a while, almost as if trying to start a conversation.

Irene nodded, pulling away to look around, worried anyone might be seeing them. "She was robbed, but she was stupid enough to put up resistance, that frail little thing." Irene shook her head disapprovingly, knowing that she'd come out of worst situations without a single scratch. "The assailant left her in a pretty bad shape, broke two of her ribs." Her gaze then landed on the floor, pensive. "I pity her. A broken rib is one of the worst things that can happen to an opera singer."

Holmes' eyes narrowed, curiosity suddenly nagging at his mind. "Have you ever had a broken rib?"

Irene gave him a pointed look before turning for the entrance (or rather, exit) of the theather. "He must be wondering why I'm taking so long" she explained over her shoulder.

"Goodnight, then, Miss Adler" he called after her. She stopped and sighed, a little exasperated.

"Goodnight, Mr. Holmes" she replied, not looking back as she abandoned the theather.

During the next four days, she barely got to see Holmes. He was always off to find evidence of some kind, he only mentioned that it was the key to her release and that she needed to trust him.

She was content with that as long as she got to kiss him behind the wine red curtains a couple of times every day.

* * *

New Year's Eve came around sooner than they expected.

The sun was setting, casting an orange glow over the snow, Holmes was making his way to the house Irene shared with her husband. It was quite a gigantic building, surely the opera house was more promising that Freddo had let on.

Holmes sneaked into the backyard, she had explained to him that she chose a very accessible room on the first floor. He looked at her through the foggy glass of the window, brushing her long curls in tranquil pensiveness.

He had to act fast, her husband would be there to take her to the opera house any moment. He pushed his way through the snow covered bushes and attempted to open the window, only to realize that it was locked. Rolling his eyes, he knocked lightly on the glass. She didn't notice. He knocked harder and started waving at her. Nothing. It wasn't until a frustrated growl escaped his throat and he threw his arms in the air that she seemed to notice him.

She ran to him and opened the window, spluttering apologies as he climbed into the room.

"No worries, dear. The weather outside is just lovely, I could've staid there all day" he spat through gritted teeth, brushing snowflakes off his coat.

"I forgot!"

"Of course you did" he mumbled under his breath, stalking over to the wardrobe and throwing the doors opened. "I can't believe you unpacked." His voice was barely above a whisper as he analyzed her clothes with sad eyes.

"Wouldn't it look suspicious if I didn't?" Holmes nodded, knowing she was right, but still not liking the fact that she wasn't quite so ready for their departure. "Have you found anything?"

"As a matter of fact..." Holmes trailed off, his eyes catching a glimpse of red amongst the clothes. "Ah!" He took out the old, tattered red robe and turned to her, smiling triumphantly. "Were you planning on ever returning it?" Pulling it around his shoulders, a different question came to his mind. "Or washing it, at the very least?" The strong scent of tobacco it held the last time he wore it had mixed with her own perfume.

"And have it lose your scent? Never. Why do you think I took it in the first place?" she explained.

"It smells more like you by now, anyways" he retorted absently, realizing that, if everything went according to plan, that was the way his robe would always smell. A mixture of her scent and his. He shuddered, but it passed as a reaction to the cold.

"Well?"

"Ah, right." Clearing his throat, he began. "I hate to be the one to break it to you, darling, but your husband is cheating on you."

Irene's brow furrowed but her eyes remained amused. "With whom?"

"With tonight's leading soprano, how did you think she got the part? You heard her in rehearsals, she doesn't have the experience necessary for an opera of this caliber."

"Hm, he used to say he didn't like sopranos, that their voices were too... pitchy."

"And I'll bet he told this young woman that he doesn't like contraltos because their voices are manly and that his wife is a big nuisance. But that's beside the point."

Irene glared at him intently, gaping a little. "You think my voice is manly?"

Holmes rolled his eyes. "Of course I don't. Your voice is powerful, while soft and somewhat soothing at the same time; most sopranos are simply annoying, only a few can really deliver high notes without piercing your tympanums. I was just theorizing on what he could've said to bait the girl. I do have to agree on one thing, though, you're a big nuisance."

She sighed, running a hand across her forehead as if to wipe off sweat. She'd rather be the nuisance, at least that way she can get on his nerves.

"Where was I? Before I was so rudely and needlessly interrupted?" He started pacing the room, hands behind his back. "Ah!" he snapped his fingers. "The affair. Affairs, as I'm sure you know firsthand, are a very common thing in this business, they're not nearly as scandalous as they should be. The real thing worth hiding here is how your husband got her the role." Holmes stopped and fixed his gaze on her.

"Well?" she prompted. "What did he do?"

"You really didn't figure it out?"

"No! now get on with it, he'll be here soon."

Holmes sighed, feeling unhumoured. Why couldn't they do this the fun way? "The girl singing tonight was the alternate. Something had to happen to the leading soprano for her to take the role. Now, when the protagonist was attacked, the assailant didn't take any of her possessions, why beat her up like that and then take nothing? Robbery was obviously not the objective."

Irene blinked once, twice. Then it all pieced together and she gaped at Holmes. The bastard had known from the beginning and he deliberately left her out of his plan, he even used her to get the information he needed. She really felt like striking him.

"So you suspected Freddo was responsible for the protagonist being attacked and you didn't tell me anything? I thought we we're going to solve this together, I thought we we're on the same team!"

"Oh, don't give me that. Now is really not the time, Irene."

"But you still don't trust me!"

"It's not about trust, it's about getting this over and done with as soon as possible. God knows we've already wasted a lot of time, and if taking care of this situation before another year passes by, requires me withholding information from you, so help me, Irene, I will do it." He wasn't mad, nor agitated in the least bit. He was, after all, pretty much right. Irene had to take a few deep breaths. Alright, so it really wasn't the time for this, even she could admit that much. But when this was all over, she was going to make sure he never hid anything from her again.

"Back to the main topic. Any person who works backstage knows your husband is having an affair with the girl who replaced her, they've been making it blatantly obvious."

"I didn't notice" Irene protested.

"That's because you've been too preoccupied making it blatantly obvious that _we_ are having an affair."

"Hey! I wasn't putting a gun to your head!"

"No, but you could have been more reasonable on how many times a day you pulled me from the strings section and into your dressing room. But that's irrelevant, no one cares that a singer is having an affair with a violinist, it happens all the time."

"No one except said singer's 'husband'. Does he know you're here, then?"

"No, he knows you're having an affair. He doesn't know it's with me."

Irene breathed a sigh of relief. "So what now?"

"I have tangible proof that he was the one to attack the protagonist, but that evidence won't be of use for long. I can't turn him in with the authorities, he would contact his agents and order them to get rid of Cleo." He tried not to shudder at the thought. "We'll need to negotiate. Our evidence in exchange of your freedom."

"But it's worthless, he knows that even if he doesn't accept we're not going to turn him in."

"It's not about the authorities, it's about the other investors, darling. Do you think they'll keep him in the business if they find out he incapacitated their best soprano? They're risking a lot by letting this girl carry the whole show, if it turns out to be a disaster their going to put the blame on her. He can't afford them knowing he's responsible for this fiasco."

Irene nodded absently. "So that's it?" It certainly couldn't be that easy, right? After getting in so over her head, it couldn't be solved so easily. She refused to rely on that assessment.

"Yes, I do think that, in this case, there's no need for a more intricate solution. It's best that we go safe with what we already have."

Irene refrained herself from saying anything else and went back to doing her hair. "So when are we going to confront him?"

"Well, I could sneak out the window and leave it for after the show but since he's already making his way down the corridor, maybe we should just get it over and done with now."

Irene froze, her heart rate increasing too suddenly, leaving her a little light headed. She hadn't heard the footsteps but she could now hear the turning of the doorknob. She really felt like striking Holmes for not telling her. Again.

Freddo walked in a little too naturally, and was not really surprised to see Holmes.

"I had my suspicions, but I must confess I was not sure whether the violinist fooling around with my wife was really Sherlock Holmes."

"Then the disguise did most of its job."

They spoke like they'd known each other for years, like they had planned to meet there and then. Irene gaped at Holmes. Again.

"I suppose you're here to blackmail me into letting my wife run away with you" he asked cynically, turning to Irene and giving her a pleased, smug smile.

"Why yes, I'm glad that we can cut right to the chase" Holmes replied coldly.

Irene felt faint from the rage that was suddenly building up inside her. It all sounded rehearsed, too much like a formality. Had they already worked it all out without her knowing? Had Holmes bought her freedom in a way he didn't want her to know about? Was this all just a play Holmes decided to put up for her sake?

But that, of course, was all a work of Irene's paranoid mind. There had been no previous meeting between the two men, not a civilized one, anyway. Freddo always suspected, he just enjoyed letting her think that she was fooling him. Then again Holmes suspected that he suspected. So they had to be a step ahead of the other, even if just mentally. It was, as Holmes was sure he himself once put it, a Gentlemen's game, much like Poker or Chess.

Any way, Holmes knew all along that blackmail would not work. Freddo would be expecting as much. Still, he needed a cover plan, for Irene would never agree with the real one.

And what, exactly, was the real plan? It was simple. It would end the way it started. With a fist fight. Much like one of those duels where both men take seven steps in opposite directions, then turn around, shoot, and the last one standing gets the lady. Except Holmes suspected Freddo to be a far more reasonable man, one that was not interested in either dying or killing for Irene.

So he figured that he'd be willing to have fist fight instead, the first one to fall loses. He was relying on the fact that Freddo already had another woman and that he was probably bored of Irene by now anyways, but was too prideful to let her go that easily.

And, as always, Holmes was right.

So before Irene could process what was going on, Holmes had explained the evidence they had against him, Freddo had refuted with consistent facts and alibis Holmes knew he would have, Holmes had proposed a honourable fight that would 'settle the matter for once and for all' and Freddo had agreed while throwing the first punch.

And now the two men where going at each other with a fury Irene was not sure she had witnessed before. Well, not on Holmes, at least.

She watched helplessly as her whole destiny was being decided by a stupid fist fight. Men could be so ruthless sometimes. And even though she'd seen Holmes' boxing skills in action, she couldn't help the sinking feeling that this victory was not assured, that her whole happiness was in jeopardy.

She couldn't stand there and do nothing, not when she could end this so easily.

Ever graceful, ever silent, she slowly tip-toed her way to the vanity, careful not to cross Holmes' vision. He couldn't spare a distraction, but she wasn't so worried about that. She worried that if their eyes locked, he would see her intentions and try to stop her. He most certainly would disapprove, but once it was done, there would be no turning back, and he would have to accept it.

In time, he would forgive her. Or at least she hoped so.

This was all her fault, she started this mess and she would be the one to end it. It was the only way.

Always kept around, and now shamelessly displayed in her make-up table, was her dagger, the one disguised as a hair comb, the same one she had once raised against Holmes. Grabbing it and swallowing back an anguished cry, Irene lunged forwards...

And Freddo crumpled to the ground with a muted thud.

* * *

Ok, so I re-wrote that part a million times, and I'm still not pleased with it.

I was reflecting on all that's happened in this story and it reminded me of a movie named "Original Sin" with Antonio Banderas and Angelina Jolie, specially the ending. It is one of my favorite movies, so it doesn't surprise that it unconsciously influenced this fic.

Thanks for still reading, hope to see you next chapter ^.^


	32. Almost There

Hi... um... I don't know if you guys are still interested on this story, I know this time i took just way too long, but somehow this thing just didn't want to come through. But yes, there is a new chapter. Please don't hate me, I know i hate myself, this is my baby, i didn't want to leave it unattended for so long but... you how you start a story because you have a lot of free time to spend doing what you love to do? Well, fate can be horribly mean sometimes, It seems the farther i went with this, the busier i got.

So if anyone is still reading this, please enjoy it, I've put my whole heart on it. There's still an epilogue, and I know i'm not worthy of your trust, but it is always amongst my best intentions to be done with it as soon as possible, I hope you don't give up on me.

* * *

Murders weren't such a rare thing, really. Sherlock Holmes of all people should be entitled to state that. He saw murders like doctors saw flus, but unlike a doctor, he never quite bothered with the victim. The murderer was always so much more intriguing and worthy of his attention.

This case was not the exception.

She looked at him, round emeralds brimming in the light, pleading. Irene Adler didn't plead; it just wasn't in her nature. Criminals don't plead. Not cold-blooded ones like her, at least. He closed his eyes, hoping to escape the scene in front of him, but it was burned in the back of his eyelids. _She_ was burned in the back of his eyelids, in the back of his mind.

Some part of him had come to terms with being put in all kinds of compromising situations, and he consciously acknowledged that he would end up doing some pretty drastic things for her. He was at peace with that too. He was used to letting her get away with her crimes, and he suited himself with stealing something from her in return, just so that the balance didn't tip over to her side too much.

He could've turned her in. God knows he's had a fair amount of chances to. _If only_ he'd turned her in, he wouldn't be standing here having to deal with a corpse.

Lazily, through the heavy load of information, he managed to realize just how much irony was dripping off of this turn of events, and off the decision he had taken before any of this even happened. Because it wasn't a decision, it was just a change of plans.

However the greatest detective was led to cover up a murderer? Well, love and irony do tend to come together.

He had never planned a crime, and much less had he ever twisted facts to suit theories. But he guessed altering a crime scene in favor of the criminal was all about that. The cynic, scientific, morally-detached side of him took it up as a challenge. Isn't the way to prove right a result to do the inverse operation? If he can turn the evidence around so that it tells the story he wants the police to decipher, then all his not-inconsiderable deductive methods will be proven infallible. Such a silent triumph, the only one to be kept to himself, as a reminder of his superiority in this field.

He was sure he would've been thrilled to see it from that perspective, was it not Irene's freedom that was at stake here. _Irene's freedom to be with him_. Because, after all, he was satisfied with the legend he would be leaving behind after his death, all he really wanted was to spend the rest of his days with her by his side. And he couldn't do that if Irene was accused of murder. She was too smart to go to jail, but her not going to jail would probably resume to her being on the run for the years to come, and that would only send them back to the beginning, where he waits with an open window for her to have a chance to visit.

Holmes is not having that.

She looks at him, and he knows it was never a decision.

So he guided her through it, although he suspected it should've been the other way around.

She knows about altering evidence, but he knows what detectives will be looking for. It crossed Irene's mind (not for the first time) that they would have made a great criminal couple, and it crossed Holmes' mind that she might actually be helpful to his cases.

Freddo was laying face down, blood pooling around him. Holmes felt nothing when he looked at him. Still, this wasn't the way to end this.

"Kneel beside him, turn his torso to face you and lift him onto your lap."

"What?"

"Supposing you were a loving wife, your first reaction would've been to aid him, Also, you'd be so disturbed, you'd be stupid enough to pull out the dagger."

Irene obeyed, reasoning with herself that it made sense, and preparing herself for the role of devastated, traumatized wife. Holmes asked for gloves, and she pointed to a drawer in the nightstand. He used his sleeve to pull the handle, and after putting the gloves on, he started rummaging through every single drawer, pulling out everything and generally creating the illusion that a thief had been in the room.

He threw jewels and other expensive possessions onto the bed, then took a suitcase and stuffed them inside, along with Irene's man clothes and his robe.

All the while, Irene followed him with her eyes, trying to stay serious. She was sure he wouldn't appreciate it if she burst out laughing after what she had just done, with the man she just murdered laying in her arms. She wouldn't blame him if he thought there was no humanity left in her, no sense of guilt and remorse, and she certainly couldn't hold it against him if he decided he didn't want her by his side.

So she remained quiescent, entertaining herself with imaginings of what was to come, of the life she had just traded her last drops of innocence for. It wasn't the first time she had to kill a man, and she was sure Holmes had to have a few souls on his conscience too. But for both of them, it had always been self-defense, to kill or to be killed. Irene wanted to think this was slightly similar. If anything happened to Holmes... it would kill her. Doesn't that qualify as self-defense? She was preventing getting hurt by preventing him from getting hurt. That has to count for something, right?

"There, now that the thief is done and you've sobbed over the corpse –by the way, a few teardrops on his clothes would've been excellent, but we've no time for that now- he approaches you, because you've witnessed his crime and he can't just leave you here, and you spring to your feet and make a run for the door." Irene nodded to indicate she was following his reasoning, but sensing that he wasn't done talking. "I need you to really do it, the body will fall in a different position and the footprints in the carpet will be smaller than if you just stand up and walk."

"Alright" was really all she could say, and she started shifting her legs to make standing up easier.

"Wait! That's not everything." Irene huffed and slumped back down. "When you get to the door, lock it, then struggle with the knob. I'll come up behind you and drag you to the window, from where I'll be throwing you out." She raised an eyebrow, ready to object. Holmes sighed "'Throwing' as in helping you out in a way that will leave certain marks in the window frame and a print in the snow which will tell the detectives that the thief forced you out."

"That's more like it" she muttered, readying to stand up again.

"Wait! I have to throw this out first." Holmes closed the suit case, having thrown in the dagger too, and unceremoniously tossed it out the window. "There. Now go, we don't have all night."

Irene rolled her eyes for the umpteenth time, and without stopping to think it through again, shot up and ran for the door. Immediately, Holmes took after her, purposefully stepping on the blood. He put his arms around her waist (like he has done uncountable times) a lot more tenderly than a thief would care to, and reminded her to lock the door, his breath tickling the back of her neck and sending shivers down her spine.

"Struggle to get out of my grip" he commanded. She'd struggled against him before, and she knew that if she really wanted to, she could have him pined to the ground in a matter of seconds. But as of that moment, she was at loss. If anything, she wanted him to hold her tighter, to squeeze her into his chest until neither of them could breathe. "Come now, you can do better than this" he murmured, half amused, half annoyed, and his lips brushed against her ear when he spoke... Irene gave the retreating door an undignified glare. She still didn't want to get away from him, and what was an actress without her motivation?

"Why can't I get out on my own?" she mumbled. Her arms went around his shoulders, instinctively bringing herself closer. Holmes sighed, trying not to let her closeness affect him.

"Because I'm taking you against your will," he explained.

"You're taking this way too seriously." For the sake of getting out of this situation, Holmes decided to let her comment go. If everything went well, they'd have plenty of time for arguments later.

"I will lower you as much as I can before letting you go," he announced. When he did drop her, the distance between her back and the blanket of snow was of less than two feet. "Crawl out of the way, will you?" he requested as he made his way out.

Irene stood up and waited. Holmes glared at her.

"You're being kidnapped. You're not supposed to just stand there, you'd be trying to run away."

"No one is watching this." She reminded him.

"But the foot prints in the snow..."

"You really think they'll still be visible by the time the police comes around?"

"If it doesn't start snowing again, then yes, they will be very much visible. Let's just start walking away."

Without further ado, Holmes picked up the suitcase and grabbed Irene's elbow tightly, leading out of the garden and out on the streets.

"Take small steps," Holmes murmured. It seemed contradicting since he was taking big strides and practically dragging her along.

"Take small steps and keep up with you? How am I supposed to do that?"

"You're not supposed to be keeping up, you're supposed to be trying to slow me down. Besides, there isn't that much height difference between us, and that will show in our footprints if we walk at the same pace. But if you take short steps and I take longer ones, by comparison it will seem as though the man kidnapping you was much taller and stronger than you."

Irene fell silent, biting back a few snide remarks about Holmes's height.

Holmes dragged her on and on, through solitary alleyways, never stopping for more than a few seconds. She wanted to ask where he was taking her, because it seemed like he knew something she didn't. Every other corner he stared around, as if orientating himself, then he'd give a small nod and keep going.

"What have you done?" he kept mumbling, thinking it was low enough for her not to hear. She was trying to learn how to ignore it.

"Do you actually have a plan, or are you making it up as we go?"

"You don't get to criticize my course of action. Not now and not ever again. But just so you know, yes, I've already got a plan set out."

Irene rolled her eyes. "Aren't you going to tell me?"

Holmes gave a little snort. "Like you told me you were planning on killing him?"

"You're never going to let me leave this down, are you?"

"You know me so well, darling…" he whispered. It didn't come as sarcastic and mocking as he intended, because it was very much true.

They kept going.

Every now and then, Holmes would have to remind her to look anxious. She assumed it was better not to draw attention to themselves, so she indulged him for a few minutes before slipping her poker face back on. After what almost became a full on argument, Holmes explained that witnesses where inevitable, and that if she was seen walking carelessly around with a man apparently unrelated to her, it wouldn't help the hypothesis that she was being taken against her will.

Irene still wasn't convinced.

It was around midnight that they reached their destination. Irene felt the need to slap herself for being so clueless.

"The Spree?" She whispered in disbelief. "Holmes, there were so many shortcuts we could have taken..."

"It may have been a long time since I last was here, but I believe I remember my way around, Irene."

"Please tell me you have a vessel waiting for us, because that's the only reason I can think of for you dragging me to the river."

"No vessel, unfortunately I don't have many allies left in Germany. We're here to get rid of the evidence." With that, his eyes landed on her, calculating. Irene frowned, confused.

"Define evidence..."

"Your dress."

She only managed to open her mouth and stare at him.

"We're throwing it on the river"

"And you had to wait until we were here to tell me?"

"Don't fret, I've packed men clothes..."

"Couldn't I have changed before we went out?"

"Witnesses, darling. Witnesses. Now, before the thief killed you..."

"What? That's what we're going for now? He killed me?"

"Yes, or would you rather he let you live? That would mean you'd have to stay behind for the investigation and put on the whole devastated widow act for a few months."

"But if he killed me, then how could I just show up in London?"

"You'd have to change your name, and keep a low profile. It's nothing you haven't done before, except this time it would have to be permanent."

Somehow, this didn't phase her as he expected it would.

"What would my new name be?" was the only question she had. And it was sincerely a question, not a reproach, not a sarcastic way to say she disagreed. Holmes blinked at her, his eyes narrow.

"We'll talk about that on the way." He answered, expecting her to demand that the issue was solved right then and there. But she nodded, going quieter than ever before. Holmes cleared his throat and tried to proceed. "Now lay on the snow, on your back."

She did as she was told without as much as a wince from the cold wetness that met her exposed neck.

Gulping, Holmes knelt, and straddled her. "He strangled you." He whispered, his hands cupping her neck gently. "Writhe a little. For snow print purposes."

After less than a minute, Irene started shivering, and Holmes decided the snow beneath her was sufficiently squashed and melted.

He was quick to stand and retrieve the suitcase, pulling out the clothes he brought for her.

"And here is where you change… No! don't stand up! You're a corpse right now! Alright, here's what we'll do: take your shoes off…" she somehow managed to oblige without losing her horizontal position. Holmes helped her put on her man boots, then he passed an arm under her knees and lifted her. "I'm going to put you down over there, step on my footprints and hold your skirt up."

Careful not to step outside his footprints, Irene changed into her white dress shirt and brown trousers, which was quite an accomplishment. Irene was also grateful it was to late and too cold for passers-by. Holmes sank her midnight blue dress in the river, then he held her up again.

"We can't have two sets of footprints walking away," he explained needlessly.

Irene couldn't really complain. She was cold and he was warm, and that was the end of it. She took the suitcase, since his hands were otherwise occupied, and he carried her until they found a street where several footprints mixed up. From there, they walked to the train station, on different sides of the sidewalk and often taking different streets, so that their trails wouldn't be parallel.

* * *

Holmes was sprawled across the love seat in their train cabin, when Irene walked in, holding two glasses and a bottle of wine.

He was staring intently at something in the damask wallpaper in front of him, while working his fingers all over an imaginary violin. She left the bottle and glasses on a nearby coffee table, and when to sit beside him. In a matter of a few minutes, she was stretched across him, resting her cheek on his chest and reaching her hands into his tousled hair. His arms wrapped around her lazily and she let out a contented grunt that sounded more unbelievably close to a purr.

Irene chuckled quietly, feeling like an old, fat, house cat resting on its owner's lap during a rainy afternoon.

That feeling stuck with her. A house cat. Home.

Hmm… she liked cats, she should get herself one...

Would Holmes want a cat? She didn't remember him being too fond of Gladstone, maybe he didn't like pets. Or maybe he was just more of a cat person, like her.

Yes, they should get a cat. Name him (or her) some silly name sit by the fireplace with them. That would be nice, she thought, very nice indeed…

Irene sighed. When they arrived in London, she would ask him if they could have a cat, she decided.

She purred again, rubbing her cheek against his chest with her eyes closed. She was really getting into the cat character, but she didn't mind. She liked feeling like a house cat, feeling at home. And for the first time since she could remember, that word didn't make her want to sneak out the window.

Then he decided to break her happy moment.

"That was so beneath you" he mumbled absentmindedly, threading his fingers through her hair maybe a little too roughly, but if he was hurting her she didn't utter a word. "Did you really have to take it that far?" his musing continued, low and raw, the words escaping his mouth unfiltered, directly from his troubled thoughts. She sighed impatiently and opened her mouth to defend herself.

"Don't you dare." he hissed, sensing her intentions even though he wasn't even looking at her. "Nothing justifies your actions" he added darkly, closing his fist around her hair and pulling her face towards his. "You're a murderer" his eyes inevitably slipped to her lips for a split second, but his gaze remained intense and accusing, boring into hers. "What am I supposed to do with you now?" his nostrils flared a little, his breathing racing though his chest rose just barely. It was a strange type of emotion, a compromised anger.

"Forgive me" she answered simply, her green orbs tranquil as she tried to reach his lips. He pulled her face away a little.

"How?" it came out angry, dangerous. She reached up and traced his cheek with the back of her hand. "How?" he insisted, his anger watered down. She shrugged, biting back a smile. "How?" his brow furrowed, his eyes suddenly soft, comprehensive. She allowed her lips to twitch a little, fixing her eyes on his hair as she played with his messy locks. "How?" he whispered desperately, clashing her forehead against his, his eyes begging for her attention. She smiled full on, bringing her hand to the nape of his neck and brushing her nose against his.

It had become a contest, they both knew. How many times and in how many different tones would he have to ask until she answered? She did always like to toy with his head, and this was the perfect chance to fully test his emotional range. It was a silly game, compared to the ones they used to have, and she figured it could do no harm. She marveled at the feeling of belonging, of routine. She was getting a taste of how the rest of her life with him would be like, and she couldn't help the grin that split her face in half.

"How?" he repeated mechanically, absently, his eyes were now closed, relishing on the warm spreading through his chest. And she was just nuzzling his nose. He felt a nagging voice in the back of his mind tell him that he was smitten, but he paid no attention.

"You know there's nothing to forgive. Stop torturing yourself, it was necessary." Her breath washed a sense of relief over him, and he pulled her closer so their lips were touching. "We'll go back to Baker Street, we'll play with our children and we'll leave this behind us." Her lips tickled his as she spoke, he swallowed his pride and pressed a chaste kiss against them.

She wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders and deepened the kiss. He was having none of it.

"I haven't forgiven you yet." he warned, some of the harshness back on his voice. She smirked knowingly, surprising herself by thinking that she was actually proud of him, of his own prideful demeanor. He had not changed one bit.

"Face it, Holmes. You forgave me a long time ago."

His jaw squared and he eyed her face in frustration. "Why can't you let me hold something against you for once?"

She gave a hearty laugh, it rang on his ears and sent warm shivers down his spine. "What kind of retaliation is that?"

He found himself chuckling. "I don't have a clue" he confessed. She gave him that radiant smile and ran a hand through his hair. He bit the inside of his cheek and shook his head, not quite ready to surrender even though he knew he was defeated.

"Had you ever killed a man before?"

"What do you think?"

He nodded absently, squeezing her frame against himself without realizing.

* * *

Time passed slowly, they had nothing to do outside their cabin, much less inside.

They contented themselves lying together, having lazy conversations about everything and nothing, dozing off and waking up, and generally reacquainting. The realization that every morning would be like this hadn't quite settled down, and Irene told herself this was the closest they would ever be to getting a proper honeymoon. She wasn't about to put up resistance.

Now, Irene stared outside, wondering whether or not she was entitled to smile.

Holmes slept soundly a few meters away, clearly drained both physically and mentally. She had not dared wake him just yet, it wasn't easy getting him to fall asleep in the first place. He was just as anxious to get to London as she was.

A fluttering sensation nestled in her gut at the thought of London.

"So bleak this time of year" she muttered to herself, shaking her head almost involuntarily. How naïve had she been to ever voice such thought, who knows how many years ago. The foggy streets, the constant drizzle, the snow in winter. She would be looking forward to the spring, when a few timid rays of sunlight made their appearance through the clouds.

She figured that, if sacrifices were to be made, a lifetime of bleakness was worth it if said lifetime was to be spent with them. Or more accurately, a lifetime with them would not be spent in bleakness.

Them because her days wouldn't revolve around Holmes, as had been the case recently. Her heart yearned to see Cleo's face again, to hold little Sherlock in her arms. She could only imagine herself teaching them about music and the many cultures of the world, then behind their father's back teaching them about hiding knives and sneaking out windows.

And also, if she was being absolutely honest with herself -which lately had become a rather easy task- she longed to have some tea and a long nice chat with the good old doctor. She felt she owed him and his wife an explanation. As well as Mrs. Hudson, since she was probably the one who had to put up with changing diapers and reminding Holmes to buy milk. Then again, she was giving him such little credit. The few days she had been with them, she got to see that Holmes was really doing a great job.

Her eyes landed on his sleeping form almost without her consent.

Domestic life was going to be a thrill, and she could not believe she was thinking so herself.

Holmes stirred for a few minutes, then he grunted and, kicking the covers off himself, got up. He walked around almost blindly, rubbing the sleep off his eyes, trying to get his mind to fully wake up. After a while he flopped down on the bed again, staring at her through heavy eyelids. Irene stifled a chuckle, but her eyes lighted up with amusement and adoration. "It's still going to be a while, you could get some more sleep."

"I don't feel like sleeping anymore." And true to his word, his eyes were now wide open. Staring at her seemed to have helped. Irene rolled her eyes, suspecting that she was going to be doing that a lot from now on. "What are you thinking?"

She bit her lips together, trying to hide a smile. She still didn't feel she deserved that smile, nor the light-hearted happiness behind said smile. Figuring he'd understand, she turned her face away, to the window. He stood and went to stand beside her. She gently gestured with her chin for him to follow her gaze, and when he did, he understood. Bringing his arms around her frame, he leaned his weight on her back, resting his face on the top of her head.

"Feels good to be home" she whispered unnecessarily as they stared out at the English countryside.

* * *

Thanks again to anyone who is still reading this, I love you guys, I'm so freaking sorry, I hope you stick around for the epilogue.


	33. Epilogue

Hello there, my dear dear readers, you didn't actually think I would abandon this forever did you? I know it's been more than a year (and maybe most of the people who supported me since the beginning won't even be reading this), but life kept getting in the way.

Long story short: 2012 was the worst year of my life. My father died, I started university only to drop out after a few months because the stress was making me sick, I spent some time dwelling on my misery, tried to stand up at the beginning of 2013, then my Grandfather died and I was knocked back down to the depths of depression.

So right now I'm in the process of getting my life back on track, part of that means rediscovering my muse and trying to re-learn how to write.

This baby you're about to read, was originally going to be a really short epilogue. My guilt at being unable to finish it grew with time, and said guilt made this thing keep growing and growing until it became the 11,688 words monster I have brought you today. Hopefully the length makes up for the delay?

Anyhow, go on and enjoy, I have saved the goodbye for the endnote.

btw, link to the story's cover image can be found in my profile, I think you might like to see it in its full size.

* * *

'

"John, dear, I really do believe we are in desperate need of a crib, he can't sleep in a drawer forever!"

"Mary, we are not buying that two thousand pounds crib you saw yesterday."

"But John! It was made of dark cherry wood! It would go perfectly with the beige walls in the nursery room…"

"In any case, I could arrange for someone to bring over the crib from Baker Street, I know for a fact Holmes never got rid of it, and as far as I remember it was of a dark color too."

Defeated and annoyed, Mary releases a small sigh into her tea. She knows her husband means no offense, and that after so many years of having an empty guest room, he has grown used to the idea of it never being occupied as they had planned. Still, it stings that he is so reluctant to… Then again, how shall she word this? His reluctance to realize it might be years before he sees his best friend again? His reluctance to make good on the promise he made to said best friend? His reluctance to see Mary as a mother to those children?

It's just a silly argument, she reasons with herself, it's just a silly crib. Cribs are not important, babies are; she's already got a baby, a crib should be the least of her worries.

And besides, it's barely been a week since Holmes left. It will take some time, maybe a few letters on how he's making no progress whatsoever and that he'll have to embark to some unheard-of, faraway country in pursuit of his obsession.

Mary also guesses that it will be a gradual development, her husband won't even notice he's being a father as he plays with little Sherlock, he won't notice he's being irrationally overprotective when Cleo starts thinking about boys. He'll come home every evening with a kind smile on his face and he'll listen as she tells him everything the children were up to during his absence, he'll reprimand them in their trickeries and applaud them in their achievements, he'll laugh and cry along with them and he'll love them unconditionally.

He doesn't know all that yet, but Mary knows him well enough. She knows what kind of man he is, she knows he has that reaction in him; she just needs to be patient.

"That will be alright, I guess… thank you, dear."

He smiles at her over the paper, loving and devoted as he's been since they met. "You are welcome, darling."

She smiles, too, and holds his gaze a little longer than it is usual. Even years into their marriage and with a strict routine set up, she still has these moments, in which she'll look him in the eyes and think _I love him_ as if it were the first time; and in those eyes there's a gleam and in his lips there's a little twist, and she knows he is realizing all over again, too, that he loves her. Their silent exchange is interrupted by a knock on the door, and as Mary stands and brushes imaginary breadcrumbs off her dress, they share one last look of disappointment and annoyance.

Mary is rarely careful when opening her front door; she usually swings it wide open so that whoever has requested their attention can walk in as soon as possible and make themselves at home. She knows it changes nothing, but this time she really wishes she had at least looked out the window first.

They stand there, in her threshold, smiling softly with their arms around each other like two turtle doves, and they greet her warmly, like they're old friends. Dazedly, she steps back and lets them in. From the dining room comes John's voice, asking who it is, and they call back some witty remark, just to let him know it's them, and that they're back, and that everything is alright again.

John appears in the little foyer and stares in disbelief for a moment, but then he is holding his arms out and drawing them both into a hug, laughing and teasing and asking for details. Somehow they end up in her living room, narrating their adventure with wild gestures, often cutting each other off, like their minds are connected, and John listens closely, hanging onto every word like he was there, like his last adventure with them was yesterday and not some five or six years ago. Mary only hears half of it, bits and pieces that don't make sense to her.

She loses track of time, so she doesn't know how long it has been when the little girl walks down the stairs, rubbing her eyes and asking for Mary. Yes, for Mary. Because every morning, Mary goes into the guest room, draws the curtains open and sits on the bed beside her, petting her hair and telling her about all the things they will do that day, until she is fully awake.

Today, she woke up alone, and her first thought was that Mary wasn't there.

It warms her heart pleasantly, and Mary envelopes her in her arms, welcoming her into the world of the awake. Not ten seconds later, she is being pushed away, and the little girl is running to _him_.

She goes into a haze again, barely registering what is said as they reacquaint. She asks about places, about trains and historical buildings that he apologizes for not visiting. Somehow, Mary misses the moment when he explains everything about the woman sitting beside him, about how she'll be living with them, and Mary only snaps back to reality when-

"She's the one in the photograph, isn't she?" and then she is quick to cover her mouth with her hands, eyes wide and guilty, sneaking glances at John and… "I'm sorry, Uncle Watson, I wasn't supposed to tell-"

And of course John didn't return that bloody photograph to Holmes. Of course he didn't.

"It's alright now, dear, don't worry about that anymore…"

_Yes, everything's alright, of course it is,_ Mary thinks bitterly. Her vision blurs around the edges and the room appears to be spinning, so she closes her eyes and tries to get a grip of herself.

When she opens them, she sees white. A white ceiling. And the chair beneath her has become a bed.

Her husband sits by her, holding her hand, an undecipherable expression in his face. He tells her that she fainted, and that she should sleep now. Mary doesn't want to sleep, can't sleep right now. She tries sitting up, only to have another wave of dizziness overcome her. John puts a hand on her shoulder and tells her to rest. Within the next five minutes she is sleeping soundly.

It's already dark outside the next time she opens her eyes, and John is laying beside her.

"What time is it?" she whispers hoarsely.

"Some time past eight."

"Dear god, John! Why would you let me sleep for so long?" she springs out of the bed and marches to the door without waiting for an answer.

"They left a while ago…" A big iron claw closes around her heart, and she feels empty inside. She stays put, hand still on the doorknob, and lets her mind go completely blank. "After I told them the good news," he adds after a moment, in a tone that makes him sound like he's hinting at something.

"What good news could we have for them?" she questions, breathing shallowly and she knows she needs to sit down otherwise she'll faint again. Her husband doesn't seem to notice, or understand, just how upset she really is. He goes up to her, rests his hands on her shoulders and searching her eyes he asks:

"Why didn't you tell me before?"

Mary frowns at him, completely lost as to what he means, and she doesn't feel in the mood for guessing.

"I don't know what you're talking about, John"

"I must say, I should've realized it sooner, you _have_ been a little moody, and you do seem to be tired all the time-"

"That, is because for the last week I've been caring for a girl and a baby as if they were my own children, I played with them, I rocked them to sleep and I gave them everything I had and you expect me to just let them go? Just forget I ever had them? I can't do that, John, I can't go back, I will no-"

"Wait a minute, are you telling me _you_ didn't know?"

"Know what, John?" To her utmost surprise, her husband starts to laugh. "This is not funny in the slightest! I know you don't understand how this feels like for me, but can you not see how much this affects me? I wanted to-" She is cut off by his lips on hers, gentle and intense at the same time.

"Darling, you really need to learn when to let me talk," he whispers, giving her one last little kiss before pulling away. "This strange behavior didn't start a week ago, now did it?" Mary just glares at him, waiting for him to explain. "Mary, when did you last have your period?"

"Oh, so now you're going to rub _that_ on my face? The fact that I'm officially incapable of giving you any children! Well, if you find it so interesting, I stopped being fertile about three months ago…"

"Oh, I knew it!" he exclaims, kissing her again. This time she pushes him away and gives him a hard stare of disbelief.

"I don't know what you're playing at, John, but please stop it."

"Mary…" he says fondly, half a smile on his lips, with that look in his eye from earlier in the morning. "You are pregnant, darling."

She waits patiently for him to laugh and tell her it's a joke. A very cruel one, and she isn't sure just _how_ she will forgive him for this.

It takes Watson a good two hours to point out all the reasons why she's pregnant and not just menopausal. Then, it takes Mary another good hour and a half to come to terms with it, her world slowly shifting to accommodate this new truth, a thousand bitter thoughts carefully being shred to pieces, drifting off and away from her reach, and she doesn't need to grasp at them anymore.

She will be a mother, she _is_ a mother, even now.

Mary raises her eyes to look at John, her darling husband, who is smiling at her in that soft way that has always betrayed his feelings to her. She smiles herself when as she realizes he is going to be a father, that _she_ has made him a father, and she feels tears of pride and joy burn their way down her face as she launches herself into his arms.

* * *

Baker street greeted them warmly, the place still buzzing with energy from the New Year celebrations, and the sight of the building as they approached it made Irene's insides twist and burn in the most delightful way. A baby in her arms squirming cheerfully, a small girl holding onto the hand of her father. A family- _her_ family, walking through the threshold of a door that read 221b.

Mrs. Hudson, upon seeing them, wasted no time and started lavishing attention on Cleo; Holmes gave her that look of fond annoyance that he had mastered so well, taking his coat of and striking up a light banter in the most domestic fashion. Mrs. Hudson's way around Irene was cold, much like Mary's, which didn't leave much room for Irene to join into the conversation.

Irene held the baby tighter to herself, feeling out of place and with good reason. A family indeed, except she wasn't quite part of it yet.

Holmes kept throwing snarky comments at Mrs. Hudson while she helped settle them in, occasionally protesting about how she was not his housekeeper, but withstanding the abuse without so much as a frown. Irene sat back and observed them, realizing they were, in fact, enjoying themselves quite a bit, smiling as though they had forgotten the point of the argument. On her way out, Mrs. Hudson stopped in front of Holmes; they both squared their shoulders as if about to face a deathly enemy, staring each other down through narrowed eyes, it took Irene a moment to understand it was in fact a staring contest, and she tried to hold in her laughter when Mrs. Hudson blinked and a smug smirk broke into Holmes' face.

Mrs. Hudson released a sigh that was meant to demonstrate her irritation, but it came out rather forced for she smiled too, her hand reaching to pat Holmes' cheek the way a loving grandmother would, and with a sigh of his own, he put his hand over hers, holding it to his face. The moment didn't last too much, just a few seconds enough to get the point a across without embarrassing themselves. Mrs. Hudson with a shake of her head pulled her hand away and marched out of the room, Cleo trailing behind her as they discussed the menu for lunch.

Irene could safely say the woman hadn't spared her two sentences since they'd arrived. The last time she at least asked where she had been, but since Irene left again, she must have realized the tale about her ill father had been a lie, and this time she did not care to hear whatever Irene had to say. Holmes didn't take long to guess the course of her thoughts, and in a rare display of chivalry, offered to be the one to explain everything to Mrs. Hudson. Irene stared at the floorboards for a moment, considering the situation.

The right course of action would be to face her, to tell her everything quite the way they had told The Watsons, but Irene knew Mrs. Hudson would be more skeptical- in fact, Irene was pretty sure she would not believe a word Irene told her, simply because she was _that woman _and she couldn't possibly be telling the truth, and in all honesty, Irene was tired of dealing with all this rejection, tired of feeling as though she deserved the mistreatment (and she knew she did, but she was also set on righting her wrongs, earning herself the trust she had lost, and the coldness and the silence were not encouraging her), so she decided to let Holmes fix this for her. He had already fixed so many things she could not, and surely this would be the easiest one yet, Mrs. Hudson wouldn't doubt him (not too much at least, for it was a rather unbelievable story).

So she left the matter in his capable hands, and the next morning, Mrs. Hudson was asking for her opinion on a new wallpaper she wished to put in the kitchen in the most casual of manners. Irene gushed as best as she could at the frankly quite beautiful but too flowery for her taste design, and Mrs. Hudson was pleased enough with her response that she started lecturing her on the art of housekeeping the way she used to, long ago when Irene had yet to betray Holmes' trust and Mrs. Hudson was convinced they were to marry soon.

Back then, the lessons in baking and cleaning and sewing had irritated Irene beyond words, and her pregnancy had often been used as an excuse to avoid putting them to practice. Now, she relished them, for they offered the best opportunity she had to form a bond with Mrs. Hudson, who seemed to love Irene's daughter dearly and was equally loved in return. How could Irene then, after so long an absence, not love the woman for having taken such good care of her child?

And although gratitude alone was enough to keep Irene determined to please her, over time and coexistence, Irene found herself actually enjoying the woman's company, her advice often delivered in such witty remarks that reminded Irene nobody could be acquainted with Sherlock Holmes for so long without developing a sharp tongue. It was also great fun to have someone help her in thinking of ways to annoy said man, for lately her feelings for him had been so strong and welcomed she could not find it in herself to be anything but loving and attentive to him, and that simply would not do. As Mrs. Hudson said, it is a wife's duty to give her husband joy and pain in equal amounts.

(Mrs. Hudson never did mention marriage again, having somewhat come to terms to them living in sin.)

And while in a way it pained Irene to bring discomfort to Sherlock, it amused her in a way she had forgotten she loved so much, and after everything they went through (the events that transpired in Germany were dead and buried to them), Irene felt Sherlock to be assured of the depth of her feelings, and felt assured herself that he saw her little trickeries as what they were: a game played for the sake of amusement.

One of the most memorable ones was when she did a complete reorganization of everything in his room, because, as she said: "It's my room too now, and I will not live under these conditions. How shall I organize all these files, alphabetically of chronologically?"

He sighed in defeat, knowing there was no way he was going to get away with sheets of paper on the floor if she was going to be around. "Chronologically, please."

After that, she proceeded to have absolutely everything (from furniture to the paintings on the walls to scientific instruments) moved to a different place of the room; for this, she requested Watson's help, and he was delighted to have a part in the process.

"I salute you, Irene Adler. I could never move even this coffee table without him throwing a fit."

"I think it's only fair, I need space for my things too."

Mostly, he was there to do the physical part of the job. She told him to drag the bed to the other end of the room, right by the window, just because she knew Holmes hated the morning sun in his face when waking up. She made him move all the laboratory equipment to a single part of the room, beside the other window since she guessed Holmes would need better lighting, and she didn't want her clothes -which were already carefully hung in a wardrobe Holmes had had delivered a few days ago- to smell of formaldehyde.

"How is Mary doing?" she asked carefully, as Watson hammered a nail into the wall for one of the paintings that -Irene decided- didn't look good enough anywhere but there.

"Marvelously, she is positively glowing with happiness," he answered, a slight waver in his voice told her that there might be a bit of a lump forming in his throat, and he took a moment –after finishing with the nail- to stare at the wall, possibly composing himself.

"Do you think she would mind me visiting her?" She thought she should be making up some excuses, saying that she wanted Mary to teach her how to knit, that she wanted to give her some advice on the general topic of pregnancy, but the truth was that... she just wanted to have a friend. She couldn't very well go out and get acquainted with the first person she found, she was supposed to be dead.

Watson guessed as much, and let her maintain the casual tone of her question. "Of course not, I think she'd love the company, she has sort of... decided that she can't go out nor do anything, because she can't risk having a miscarriage. I tell her she will be fine for the next months and that she doesn't need to confine herself, but she isn't taking any chances."

Irene smiled in response, and it seemed she had always had a secret language with the doctor, because he understood that she meant _thank you._

They spent another couple of hours making small adjustments, and moving stuff they didn't really need to move just to make the most of the opportunity. Holmes didn't say anything when he saw the massacre to his sanctuary, he only took a deep breath and reminded himself that he was the one to insist on her living with him.

* * *

Going in to meet Mycroft, Irene had felt the way she imagined she would have felt had Godfrey ever taken her to meet his mother. She was expecting coldness and disapproval (basically a repeat of Mrs. Hudson), a firm handshake followed by insipid conversation until enough time passed that she could make an excuse why she needed to leave.

Instead Mycroft had extended his arms and given her a hug, babbling a bunch of stuff Sherlock must've said to him trusting that he wouldn't tell, and giving her wide openings for her to help him in teasing the younger Holmes. She took only a few of them, not wanting to annoy Sherlock too much for the time being, in case Mycroft suddenly became the cold parent figure she had been dreading, for then she would need Sherlock on her side.

Except nothing changed and Mycroft kept on spluttering all kinds of embarrassing stories from when Sherlock was a child, interlaced with some more recent misadventures he'd have with Cleo during her absence, and although this wasn't the way she would've hoped to find out all this information about her Sherlock, she listened close, lovingly storing the anecdotes in her memory for further interrogation.

The only awkward moment in the meeting was when Mycroft asked whether he should be expecting a wedding invitation in the mail now.

There had been talk of marriage, once or twice, because the topic was inevitable considering everything that surrounded them. Holmes had brought it up first, casually and disinterestedly, but there had been hesitation in his voice; he was testing the waters. Did she want them to get married? Was she waiting for him to ask? She was asking herself the exact same things. So she brushed the question off, and a mutual understanding passed between them that they were not ready to talk about it.

Now, here they were, trapped in Mycroft's office at the Diogenes Club, trying to have a conversation neither of them were ready for through the power of eye contact alone.

_Should we? Do you want to? Do we need to?_

"Well, well, no need to look so terrorized, there's no pressure. You have those wonderfully false- I mean wonderfully falsified documents, you can make do with that. As I was telling Sherly some time ago, the documents are perfectly valid as long as nobody can prove their falsehood."

_Can that be enough?_

Unable to read the other's intentions, they broke their gazes away and hurried to change the topic.

As the evening wore on, Irene found herself reluctant to part, and when Mycroft promised to stop by Baker Street more often, she found herself looking forward to seeing him again. Then the journey back home was a quiet one, the air around them thick with expectation. Should they tackle the matter for once and for all? To marry or to marry not?

Neither of them knew the answer.

* * *

Baby Sherlock was a quiet one, and Holmes almost begrudged him for not giving his mother a harder time. He slept through the night and when he wanted something he needed only whine and reach his little hands up. He adored Irene and Irene adored him just as much; they had a connection, a deeper understanding. The baby knew he didn't need to be loud and annoying to draw attention because his mother would come to him the first time he called.

It made Holmes hurt for Cleo.

Cleo who sat in her room in silence, staring at Irene as she cooed to her little brother; Cleo who seemed to be becoming quieter every day; Cleo who rarely asked him things anymore; Cleo who a few nights ago told him she was too old for bed time stories. She was discovering what it meant to have a mother, and she must have been wondering whether Irene had done for her everything she was doing for her brother.

She hadn't, and Cleo knew that.

Irene tried, she really did. She brushed Cleo's hair every morning, pulled it up into elaborate buns, sat her in the kitchen and talked to her as she cooked, tucked her in at night. A year ago they were doing all these things together and having the best of times. The difference was that now, Cleo knew her life should have been like this every day.

Holmes kept telling Irene not to give up, but she would lay awake at night, his soft snoring somewhat comforting her, wondering what she could do to win her over again.

The answer came to her in song.

She had been humming a little tune from an opera she hadn't performed since she was in Warsaw, and since Holmes was out and Sherlock hardly woke up once he was asleep, she decided she would disturb no one if she sang properly. She found the Stradivarius and rudimentarily played a few scales, singing them to warm up her voice. And once she started singing, she couldn't stop; she finished the aria and moved on to another, a more difficult one, and she could have gone on and on all day, had she not been interrupted by the sound of glass shattering.

"I'm sorry, Miss Irene, I wasn't being careful," came a shy voice from behind her.

"It's alright, darling, accidents happen," she answered as she turned to inspect the damage. Her little daughter stood by the threshold, looking at the floor in embarrassment, hands twisting nervously, whole face pouting in way that screamed Sherlock Holmes. Adoration rooted deep inside Irene's heart at the sight. "Why don't you leave this little mess here and come sing with me? I can clean up later."

"But I don't know how to sing..."

"Oh, of course you do! You just haven't let yourself try. Come, come, I'm sure for all the music your father plays for you, he hasn't actually taught you anything about it?"

"He doesn't play too much anymore."

"Do you like it when he plays?"

"Yes, a lot."

"Then together we'll convince him that he needs to start playing more often."

Irene told her about scales, about octaves and keys; Cleo listened attentively, absorbing the knowledge like a sponge. By the time Holmes was home, Irene had her singing _Twinkle, twinkle, little star, how I wonder what you are..._

And from then on, the silent, brooding Cleo was no more.

Every single day she would strive to perfect a new song, singing it from dawn till dusk and although her public grew tired with it, they could never possibly get enough of her voice. As her repertoire grew, she started arranging little concerts, mostly for The Watsons and when the occasion called, for Mycroft. She would have Irene announcing her big entrance, and Holmes accompanying her in the violin- discreetly, mind you, for after the first time he accompanied her she gave him a very serious talking to about all the ways in which he needed to stop upstaging her. Holmes listened and nodded along, fighting to keep a straight face, while Irene watched from afar trying not to burst into tears of pride.

This is how they bonded, in the end. With Irene teaching her everything she needed to know about the human voice, mentoring her on the career she had been foolish enough not to pursue, and one night, as Irene was singing her to sleep (because remember that she was too old for bedtime stories), Cleo mumbled, "Thank you for the music, mommy," before drifting into oblivion.

That night, Irene cried herself to sleep in Holmes' arms, because she finally had her daughter back.

* * *

Regaining her friendship with Mary had been easier than Irene thought, it seemed with Mary's pregnancy all had been forgiven and Irene had started planning on wonderful gifts for that baby because, bless it, had it not been for him or her, Irene would have been very bored.

Mary turned out to be nowhere near your typical housewife. Sooner rather than later, Irene learned about Mary's frustrated love for detective novels, and discovered that Mary had a passion for code-breaking that rivaled Holmes' passion for crime-solving. In fact, she discovered that Mary was ever so similar to Holmes in so many aspects, it was ridiculous how often something Mary said or did reminded her of Holmes, and now she understood why Watson married her.

This realization provided hours of entertainment with Watson himself, and Irene ended up spending just as much time with him, comparing their living companions, trying to maintain some composure and not cackle maniacally. It also provided for endless teasing material to keep their significant other's irritated during any family gathering.

Family gatherings became a thing too, and Irene still had a hard time coming to terms with the fact that she had a _family_, and a quite large one at that.

At some point Irene came to think it might just be easier if they all lived under the same household, and she was a few drops of liquid courage away from seriously suggesting this when Mary gave birth. The proposal died when she remembered wailing and midnight feedings and diaper changing. They did not need two babies under the same roof, waking each other with their cries and upsetting the fragile balance between friendship and never wanting to see the other couple again.

The Watsons' baby was a boy, and they thought it amusing enough to name him John.

Mary and Irene tried not to bring up the topic too much, in fear of giving their husbands (in Irene's case it was "husband" with the air quotes and all) any ideas, though they still caught them every now and then, whispering plans amongst the two of them, gushing as manly as they could about how their boys were going to be the perfect duo just like them.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, the second generation. The thought in itself was enough to make both Mary and Irene shudder.

* * *

Documentation and legal procedures weren't as much of a problem as they probably should have been, as Mycroft predicted. But then again, there was no document Sherlock Holmes could not forge.

The real problem with Irene's new identity was, well, her appearance. She used to be well known around London, and even though it had been years since she was seen walking around the streets, the scandal that her bloody clothes were found by The Spree in Berlin, and that she was most likely murdered was still fresh in the memory of the public, an old picture and a small biography having appeared in the paper just about a week after her supposed death.

The chances that she would be recognized were too high, so Irene was (with the exception of when she discreetly visited Mary) confined to their little place.

It wasn't until a few months later that she got to go out and mingle with the crowds again, with her hair a lighter color, dressed in all shades of brown and blue and gray- every boring color she could ever think of, and under the name of Rania Holmes née Boehm.

When Holmes presented the name to her, she was self-conscious about it, for she thought Rania Boehm was not a normal sounding name at all. Holmes joked about it being so overt it was covert, but then proceeded to explain that Rania was a Slavic variation of Regina, which meant _Queen_ in Latin and Boehm meant _Of Bohemia_ in German, and that he thought it appropriate to pay tribute to the man thanks to whom they met.

It was only later that he realized it meant something to do with another man, and even then it didn't bother him. When he came up with the name, he wasn't so much thinking about the King of Bohemia, but about what said King had once told him: _Would she not have made an admirable queen?_ He had agreed then and agreed now, more than a decade later. Not to say that he wished she had married the King instead (although he was quite grateful to that young Prince, the idiot of a man who had been foolish enough to get in so much trouble with her), but the thought of her ruling a country always did amuse him, and somewhere in the back of his mind he always considered it unfair that she did not get the chance to, when it was apparent to anyone with eyes that the King was most smitten with her.

He guessed that, to put it simply, in his mind she had always been the rightful Queen of Bohemia, and so now he was giving her her title back.

He later explained this to her, and was immensely relieved when she replied that she understood that much and did not, for one moment, believe it actually was about the King himself.

Surprisingly, even though they had started going out to restaurants as a couple and taking the children to the circus and what-not, it took a considerable amount of time for word to spread around Scotland Yard that Sherlock Holmes, _the_ Sherlock Holmes, was married and had two children. The uproar amongst the officers was amusing enough to make Holmes wonder why he took so long to let them know, they placed bets on who could possibly have made him tie the knot, although they had nothing to speculate on since nobody had ever heard of Sherlock Holmes showing interest on any woman.

Holmes was resolute to keep matters this way, but it took only five minutes of Lestrade's irritating and unamusing teasing for Holmes to give up and agree to introduce his wife to him.

"Lestrade, meet Mrs. Holmes," he said drily, his arm stiff around Irene, who was smiling politely as a way of hiding her amusement.

The inspector stared, disbelief the most prominent emotion in his face. Then he pulled Holmes to the side and, as if she couldn't hear him, hissed: "Are you bloody joking? I know very well who this is, she and Scotland Yard have some serious issues pending-"

"Yes, but can you prove she is _her_?"

Lestrade fell silent. He shook Iren- Rania's hand in defeat, trying not to glare at the triumphant smirk she was giving him. _Oh, weren't they just meant for each other?_, he thought sarcastically. He saved the glare for Holmes, and continued to give it to him every time they crossed paths in a case for the next couple of months.

* * *

It was a lot later that Irene (Rania) started working as a piano teacher at Cleo's school, false résumé and recommendation letters courtesy of her "husband". Few months after this, she started subtly complaining about how she only got to play at school, then it slowly turned into how she could only play at school but she could not sing in school, then Holmes' violin came up and how _he_ got to play whenever (and by whenever she really meant whenever, she often woke up at three in the morning to the screeching sound of the old bow scratching the worn out strings and demanded he stopped playing altogether until he replaced them) he liked while she could only do it at Cleo's school during work time where she was required to play a very specific repertoire of children's music.

To this, Holmes calmly retorted that it was not quite so true that he could play whenever he liked, for he couldn't carry the violin around with him everywhere, while her voice was a part of her body and she could very well burst out into song anywhere she was if she so desired. She then told him it was not the same, to sing a cappella, than to be able to accompany herself on the piano.

Holmes conceded the point, but proceeded to point out that their flat was extremely crowded as it was, and it would be next to impossible to even carry a piano up the stairs. So Irene spent the following months moving furniture all around the place, trying to prove that she could make a space for the piano, but after several failed attempts, she had to admit (at least to herself) that it was pointless.

Her irritation was palpable, even to him. She was not a domestic creature by any means, it wasn't part of her nature, and sometimes he wondered if it had been wrong of him, to force her into this life of a woman devoted to her family, while he still got to go out to do what he did best, what he had been doing for years. His life hadn't changed, and if he looked back on all those years, changing his life for her had never been an option. He never thought twice before saying no to her requests of running away with her.

And yet, here she was, traveling past put behind, making him french toast and babbling about her children, about their lives, what they did day to day, what they learned, what they said... and he would listen and he would participate, but at night he could talk about cases, about _this man did this and this other did that,_ about chemical reactions and pocket watches and the outside world, which was still vibrating with new experiences and adventures.

Sometimes, Holmes worried that her life was not her own anymore, that she lived for him and the children and their happiness, and who knew she could be so devoted, so selfless, so giving?

He underestimated her. He always had.

He had been studying her closely, watching her for signs of anger, of discomfort, of bitterness... he had found none until now. All this time, and the only thing she was asking of him was a piano, and he couldn't even give her that.

She must love him, he thought, love _them,_ quite enormously, for she had hidden her problems religiously over the last few years. But love was a delicate emotion, it could easily morph into something stronger, more corrosive, and wasn't it said that the things you hate most are the ones you loved dearest?

So one night, he steeled himself and, as she was getting ready to join him in bed, he unknowingly concocted the most offensive, most insensitive question a man could possibly ask the mother of his children: "When do you think you will start hating me for making your life so miserable?"

Irene dropped the hairbrush she was holding.

"Allow me to elaborate. I know this life, this housewife role was never what you wanted, but only recently have I realized how extreme of a change this must have been for you, and I apologize for my insistence. I realize it was selfish of me to have forced you into this situation, I realize that I have _forced_ you and that in itself is enough reason for me to feel the need to apologize.

"I'll say, in my defense, that I love you, and I loved you then, but I was so blinded I could not see what I was doing to you. Maybe it's because I love you even more now that you've left everything for me, that I realize how little I've given back, and I've come to understand the meaning of the popular saying _If you love something set it free_..."

"What in heaven's name are you saying-"

"I'm setting you free, dear. You can go."

There was a moment of silence, in which Holmes realized just how much it was going to hurt him when she did go, but it had to be done, he'd rather let her go now than have her hate him later.

"Do you even know what you're saying, you stupid, melodramatic man?" She whispered after a while. "Is this because of the piano? I couldn't care less if-"

"You don't need to lie to me. I know you hate being confined to this house, to the children, to me, to _taking care_ of us, to making breakfast, to cleaning my wounds when I come home hurt..."

"And wasn't I doing that years before all this? When did I pass on an opportunity to clean your wounds? Did I not bring you olives and dates and made you tea while you were asleep? Did I not sit by your bedside holding your hand and trying to get your fever to come down while you were sleeping off an overdose? Did I not work for a man I despised to keep him from killing you? You think only now I've started taking care of you? I've been taking care of you for years, Sherlock!

"Do you need me to tell you why I've been doing it? Do you really not understand? Because I love you, you bloody idiot! I've loved you all these years and I love you now, and you dare to think it's a burden for me to live here and attend to _my_ children and the man who is raising them with me? It's not! I'm here because I want to be here, I've always wanted to be here, but you, idiotic man, think my life less worthy now that I'm _confined_ to you and my children, you think I can't be your equal anymore because I don't lead the life of an independent person anymore, but guess what? I'm not _confined_, I'm not your property, I am still my own person and I don't need you to _set me free_, I can go whenever I choose to!"

"So why haven't you left?"

"Because I choose to never go. I choose to stay with you for the rest of my life, because I want to be with you, not because you _forced_ me to stay. I choose you, I choose making breakfast and taking care of _my_ children and of you. I chose us."

Her words felt like a slap across the face, and he guessed he deserved it for suggesting such ridiculous things in the first place.

"I'm sorry," he uttered, gaze fixed on her with a newfound admiration. "I shouldn't have-"

"No, I'm actually grateful that you said it, because you confirmed something I had been suspecting. You still don't trust me."

"I trust you entirely," he interjected in a heartbeat. "How could I not after all that you've done? In any case, it's myself I don't trust. I doubt I am enough to keep you happy for the rest of your life. When you get to know me, I'm not that good of a partner, just ask Watson."

Irene raised a teasing eyebrow, the air in the room suddenly light and breathable again.

"I said partner, not lover, there are many kinds of partnerships."

"Of course."

"Don't give me that look."

"You know, there was a time I was jealous of him-" Holmes rolled his eyes. "Of the _partnership_ you had."

"Well, you really needn't have been, for you'll find _our_ partnership has several benefits over the one he and I share."

"Hm, I'm afraid I can't think of many differences as of this moment. Would you care to enlighten me?" As she said this, she climbed onto the bed and over him, her face hanging above his and her nose bumping his.

"It would be my pleasure," he breathed as he closed the gap between them.

* * *

Somehow, convincing Irene that they should abandon London and start a more peaceful life in the country wasn't as challenging as he had feared.

"Where is this even coming from?"

The idea had been dancing around his mind for quite a long time, but somehow he always found a way to dissuade himself that they were alright just as they were, in their little home in busy London. Then their argument happened and, however much Irene reassured him that she was not, in fact, resentful that she couldn't have her piano, Holmes knew she wanted something, anything really, she could do other than sing and do chores and tend to the children.

And there was so much she could do if they lived in the country. So much the children could do as well.

She wasn't too convinced on his change of profession.

"Beekeeping?"

"Bees are fascinating specimens, my dear, every day I find myself more intrigued with them, and I am itching to study them myself rather than reading the same vague information in the books."

And she wasn't too keen on the distance they would be traveling.

"I reckon Chichister is a long ways from London, but the weather is wonderful, and didn't you use to complain about London being bleak?"

But it didn't take him too long to lay out all the cards (mainly because she was too thrown off to interrupt him a lot), and once he gave her what he deemed perfectly reasonable arguments, cleverly including the children's well-being and the freedom she would have to wander around town as she pleased without too much fear of being recognized, he wrapped it up nicely with the promise of better living arrangements.

"Think about it. An actual house, Irene. A room for us, a room for Cleo, a room for Sherlock, a guest room, a study room, a music room. We'll get a grand piano-"

"Boudoir or Parlor grand?"

"I was thinking _baby_ grand…" Irene opened her mouth to protest. "But if it helps in the process of convincing you, then I might compromise and agree to a boudoir grand."

"Oh, come now, that's only slightly bigger than a baby grand! I want a parlor grand."

"Woman, you intend to leave me flat!"

"Be thankful I'm not asking for a concert grand. I had a concert grand when I was on my own. Besides, it's not like you seriously intend to pay for all of this on your own, you know I have savings, ridiculously large savings-"

"That have remained ridiculously large because I refuse to let you make use of them. I already told you, your fortune will be inherited by the children, so it needs to stay a fortune."

"Yes, but if you want us to go off to the country, buy a house, buy a piano, and work on _beekeeping_… Holmes, dear, we will need a whole lot more than…"

"Than whatever I could possibly have saved from my profession as consulting detective?" He didn't sound hurt, but still Irene couldn't help feeling guilty. His intentions were the noblest, his ideas thoughtful and the way he had approached her was just lovely, trying to buy her out with the piano she knew he always wanted to give her but, in all honesty, could never possibly fit inside their current living space; because she understood that, she really did, no matter how many times she kept pointlessly and annoyingly arguing about it.

Oh, and he had had the patience of saint, calmly reminding her over and over why it could not be done, giving her no reason to be mad at him, which only made her madder and… well, now here he was, proposing a way in which he could give her everything she was unreasonably asking of him, and she just called him poor_. Way to go, Irene._

"Now, now, don't look so guilty, darling." He gave her a knowing grin, amusement dancing in his eyes, and through her facial expression she tried to convey an apology. Holmes laughed and leaned back on his chair, fingers stapled together in front of his mouth. "Tell me something, _Rania Boehm_, how do you think your friend, the King of Bohemia, knew about my services? Do you think a King would visit a lowly consulting detective himself if he had only read about me in the newspaper?"

"I'm afraid I don't follow you."

"What I'm trying to say, is that the King wasn't my first nor my last wealthy client."

"Wasn't your payment for that affair my photograph?"

"It was the only payment I asked for, however he did not seem at peace with so simple a pay, so he insisted I accepted more of him. And anyway, had I not accepted his bonuses, I still earned some wonderful paychecks from the many other cases I have solved for royal families all over Europe, plus the considerable amount of affluent clients I've had, and how often their gratitude was so that they felt the need to pay more than I was asking for."

"But your safe is empty…"

"You really think me stupid enough to place all my values in the one place that any thief would first look for them?"

"Hey!"

"Well, you did check there first, didn't you? And as you can see," he gestured around the room, asking her to take in the shelves filled with rusty old books and case files, to take in his well-loved scientific equipment and the general mess of cheap little tokens from his cases, "I am a man of simple tastes and reasonable needs. I have barely made a dent in the small fortune I was paid for my _first_ high-class case, let us not speak about the ones that followed."

"So what you're telling me now is that you're rich?"

"I would say I'm the poorest of the rich, but rich nonetheless."

Everything seemed to make sense, and hard as she tried she could not think of any more objections except…

"What about John and Mary?"

He then told her about his secret plot to convince them to come along, which consisted mostly of guilt trips, along with a light dusting of inverse psychology, a dash of bribery and just the right amount of blackmailing.

Irene wasn't too convinced. It didn't feel right to try and coerce their friends into changing their lives so drastically. But the picture Holmes was painting for her, a big house surrounded by green fields, with tall windows that illuminated the insides with warm sunlight, with a mile or two to walk before coming across neighbors, and those neighbors would be John and Mary, and their children would run around back and forth between their houses, laughing and playing and being alive… She wanted all of it, she was sick of the fog, the clouded skies and sitting around in these rooms all day.

Irene agreed, albeit hesitantly. Then when they proceeded to paint the same picture for John and Mary, they agreed to come in a heartbeat, praising Holmes for the wonderful idea, and he actually felt rather annoyed that his master plan to convince them had gone to waste.

Arrangements were made for the next few months, plans for their new life were discussed to the most minimal details, there was talk of decoration and playgrounds and of course the resourceful music room that was promised. They also talked about the vast fence that would enclose the terrain where the Holmes' beehives would reside, because Irene would not risk the children going anywhere near those things. Holmes made a note to himself about founding a sensible way to eradicate Irene's dislike (bit of a phobia) for the insects.

Time flew, and sooner than they would've liked, they were saying goodbye to Mrs. Hudson, Irene repeating a thousand times over that she should visit them as soon as possible, and Holmes grudgingly admitting that he would actually miss her and giving her a small hug. The old woman cried freely and waved at their backs as she watched them walk down Baker Street for the last time.

* * *

The estate was a huge expanse of evergreen fields, their house at the very front, sufficiently far away from the bee farm, as Irene had requested. Watson and Mary had insisted on living in town, where John could continue his practice, and so a guest house for them was in the works, for if they were comfortable when they visited they'd be inclined to stay longer. The house was just as Irene had envisioned it. Two stories, all the rooms as promised, tall windows and hardwood floors, small and dainty painted all in white, it resembled Irene's old house in Briony Lodge, as it stood quiet near the entrance of the estate.

As Irene stood before it, gazing at it with a tenderness Holmes had not seen in her eyes for years, it occurred him that they had been doing everything backwards. First came the children, then came their physical relations, then they went off to live together, then they got a house… and now, in order for this process to be complete, there was but one thing missing, for them to do what was stated as the first step of any relationship by the natural order of things.

It hit him like a ton of bricks. He turned to look at her profile, drinking in her loveliness, the expression of wonderment in her face, and felt the soul-crushing, urgent necessity to make her his wife, right then and there and for ever more. Here they were in the country, in a house that was their own, with their fast growing children, and the last step of the journey was marriage, there truly was nothing left for them to accomplish, and with this knowledge in his mind, Holmes felt crippled with impatience.

As he was about to open his mouth and let the speech fly from his ragging thoughts completely unfiltered, Irene sensed his gaze and turned to him, beaming in the sunlight that had not caressed her face in years, and kissed his stubbled cheek before rushing inside, laughing and telling the children where every single thing would be placed, and they chased after her in fits of breathless giggles as she ran- no, sprinted about the rooms talking of tapestries and furnishings and grand pianos.

He witnessed from the threshold of the front door, thoroughly bewitched by this rare display of childishness, of a freedom and youth he'd thought long lost from her life. It sparked a feeling of equally youthful infatuation in him, and his desire for marriage burned ever stronger, but it was starting to settle, to make a nest of hope and illusions so typical of the foolish-minded, sweet expectation building up inside his chest, and he felt twenty years younger all of a sudden.

He soon found himself to be addicted to the excitement, to the stirrings inside him at the thought of what her face would be when he said it, when he told her... His stomach fluttered nervously, and he decided to hold on to the invigorating emotions for a little longer, to indulge in this world of vibrant feelings so completely foreign to him.

Over the course of the next weeks, as they settled into their new lives, he would often steal her from her home-making chores and drag her for long walks across their land, so very lonely in that wonderful way that creates privacy. He'd stop along their paths to kiss her every five minutes, his hand never leaving hers and laugher never far from their lungs. He would spend most of the mornings working at his bee hives, and would return half past noon with flowers he picked up along the way. She'd have told him to stop being ridiculous, if she wasn't so surprisingly pleased by the detail.

And while Irene could not begin to fathom the reason for so drastic a change in his behavior, she felt no need to complain nor desire to stop him.

* * *

One night, after they had put the children to bed, and were walking down the corridor to their room, Holmes voiced a most outrageous idea.

"A picnic? Holmes, it's a quarter past eleven!"

"So?"

"We already had dinner!"

"I'm not hungry. Let's have a picnic."

Lately, Irene found she could hardly refute his logic.

Instead of with a picnic basket, they left the house carrying a bottle of red wine, in their nighttime clothes, and with single blanket to lay under them. Holmes led Irene deeper into their estate, up a little hill and towards the bee farm.

"Don't tell me you convinced me to come out only to take me to your hives."

"Have a little faith, I promise you'll like this."

Irene could see the beginning of the bee farm in the distance and sighed, thinking that despite his recent changes, romance was not something Sherlock was exceedingly good at. Staring ahead, something in the grass suddenly caught Irene's eye.

"What was that?" she asked as calmly as she could, stopping and rooting herself to where she was standing. She was trying not to panic, but there was no way she would go any further. "Sherlock Holmes, tell me what the bloody hell that was."

He kept walking, turning his back to her and she could see by his shoulders that he was laughing. However, before she could start raging, she saw it again. Something in the grass was... blinking? She didn't know what to call it. A small yellow dot was there and then it wasn't.

"Come a little closer and see for yourself," Holmes finally answered. He was already several feet away from her, standing in the middle of the field with his arms out-stretched, as if he were showing off a grand thing, but it was just an empty field. Reasoning with herself that if whatever was in the grass were dangerous he wouldn't be standing there so calmly, Irene took in a deep breath and walked forwards. As she came nearer, the smile on his face seemed to only grow, focusing on that made her journey easier, and before she knew it she was in front of him, safe and surrounded by...

"Fireflies!" she exclaimed, followed by an incredulous laugh. "I don't think I had seen a firefly since I was a child," she whispered, kneeling to run her hands through the grass, which sent a bunch of them flying up and around her.

Holmes mumbled something like "I told you you'd like it," before setting out to find a spot for their blanket.

"I didn't know there were fireflies here," Irene called out, not knowing where he was exactly but unwilling to take her eyes away from the spectacle.

"That's because you hardly ever bother to come anywhere near my work space. Come sit with me."

"It's not that I don't like spending time with you, but I believe I made myself very clear when I told you I would not be going anywhere near those things," she sentenced as she joined him on their picnic blanket.

"And I firmly believe those periods of time in which we are separated are responsible for the overall success of our relationship so far. As much as I love you, I don't think I'd stand to be around you all day, my dear."

"The feeling is mutual, darling."

She was smiling, and so was he.

They enjoyed their bottle of wine, uncharacteristically, in silence, forgoing the glasses (which they did not bring anyway) and taking long swigs from the bottle itself, while admiring the splendor of the summer night laid before them. The breeze was gentle, cold enough to keep the heat at bay but not strong enough that their teeth were chattering, and the sky was clear and flooded with stars, the constant swirl of a thousand fireflies blurring the horizon line, so that it seemed the stars were venturing down onto earth and floating around them. It was truly a view.

A few hours later, Holmes had finally gathered the courage to say what he brought her here for.

"I've been thinking..."

"Hmm?"

They were laying down by now, Irene's head in his chest as it was usual, as if they were home and laying on their bed, her breathing slow and Holmes could see she was half asleep already.

"I think it's time we went back inside."

She hummed again, this time it sounded like an agreement. Masking his disappointment even though she was not awake enough to notice anyway, he carefully helped her up. She yawned and stretched and rubbed her eyes as he picked up the remnants of their picnic, and on their way back she laced her arm through his, leaning her cheek on his arm and smiling drowsily.

"That was indeed very nice. Thank you"

He said nothing, but smiled nonetheless. His plan was not completely ruined, for he was sure she wouldn't be opposed to doing this again.

He let a whole month pass before taking her out again. She spent their picnic talking about some disagreement she'd had with Mary last time she visited, and Holmes listened attentively, looking for an opportunity to change the topic and wrestle her away from such thoughts, but he barely managed to say three sentences in the whole night.

Next month, she was the one to bring him outside, a basket full of baked goods under her arm, as an apology for having wasted their monthly night out the way she did. He indulged in the pleasure of having her full, undivided attention this time, and decided it wouldn't look nice to say it then, for he didn't want her to think he was only doing it so she would make him pastries more often.

And since apparently these nights out were now a thing they would be doing once month, he figured the whole thing could wait a little longer.

Almost a year went by like this, though, and with each time they went out and he said nothing, he felt himself growing more and more frustrated. He remembered only bits and pieces of the grandiose speech he had prepared, he knew not what to do with the ring (which he had purchased in his very first trip to town) anymore- should he wrap it up as a gift? Should he sneak it into the basket for her to find upon opening it? Should he simply kneel in front of her and offer it?

He was cursing himself for never asking Watson the details of how he proposed to Mary, but then again, how could he have known he'd need that kind of knowledge some day?

It was as they lay in their usual spot, with Irene half on top of him and her dainty fingers drawing nonsensical patterns on his chest, that he resolved, at last, that he simply could not do it. All that foolish bravery he had felt when he first decided to do this had already fled him, at some point it had become a source of worry and anxiety. He could not do it now so he would not. It was not worth stressing so much over. He simply would not propose and they would simply carry on the way they had been living for so long. It did not matter anymore.

A moment after he made peace with never proposing to her, she suddenly raised her head, as if struck by a brilliant idea. "Marry me, Holmes" she whispered, smiling face hanging above his, hands running up his chest to caress his face softly. His breath caught for a moment, before he exhaled in relief and reminded himself that exclaiming _thank you _would not be very brilliant. Actually, he was pretty sure there was no way he could come up with anything remotely intelligent right then, so he responded in the best way he could think of.

Her smile grew against his lips as he rolled her onto her back. That night they stayed out until the sun broke over the mountains and reminded them they could not stay there forever.

* * *

The wedding itself was a simple affair.

Watson and Mary, with John Jr. of course, Mycroft along with the Holmes' life-long servant, Stamford, as well as Mrs. Hudson, all came to a little weekend trip to the shore. The service was to be held at noon, in a small church, empty but for themselves and the priest, and in a small town where nobody knew them, so that Irene could use her real name.

Holmes concealed his anxiety masterfully, his hands buried deep in his pockets to hide their shaking, his face serene and betraying of his emotions only the happiness expected from him in such an occasion, his posture straight but not rigid, and he even managed not to tap his foot and stare around the church too much.

The same efforts that fooled his audience were the ones to give him away, at least to Watson.

"I believe, as your best man, some words of wisdom are in order."

"You really needn't-"

"I insist." They stood at the altar, facing away from the entrance and speaking in hushed tones. "I feel the need to repay you for all your encouraging advice back when I was about to get married myself," sarcasm was dripping from Watson's voice, but it was softened by the good-natured amusement that reigned his mood since he found out about the wedding. "You see, Holmes, marriage will drain your vitality from you."

"I do believe I've been as good as married for several years, and my vitality is just fine-"

"Marriage, is the end, I tell you!"

"Very well then-"

"Armageddon!"

"Go ahead-"

"Restriction!"

"Have your fun-"

"It is to live a life in eternal purgatory!" Watson proclaimed, a little too ardently, and as his voice reverberated around the church, they turned around to find their audience in fits of quiet snorts. Any other time, Watson would've felt mortified by the situation, but he was enjoying himself far too much to care. "But most importantly -and do believe me, my friend, when I say this is the secret to a functional, everlasting union," he whispered this last part, then leaning in closer, with his hand beside his mouth to keep his next words shrouded, he bestowed upon Holmes his sage advice: "Marriage is about answering to a woman."

He barely finished the sentence before dissolving into a fit of laughter, which he quickly tried (and failed) to conceal. Holmes smiled that nervous, somewhat maniac smile that stated his discomfort with the situation, while begrudgingly accepting that, yes, he deserved that. "You should be grateful I didn't throw you a stag party!" Watson said between laughs, and Holmes gave himself a moment to imagine how such an event would have carried out, then he had to admit he was indeed grateful Watson had not gotten him inebriated and that he did not have to deal with a massive hangover on his wedding day, as poor Watson had thanks to him.

"At least now I won't die alone," he told Watson once his laughter had died down. At this, Watson's face softened, and he gave his friend a genuine smile.

"All joking aside, I truly am happy you will not. Now, embrace me," and so Holmes did. "Although, I really must ask, whatever made you two do this? Were you two not comfortable enough with _living in sin_?" he joked once they had parted.

"I have great hopes that we shall love each other all our lives as much as if we had never married at all"

"Good god, did you really just quote Lord Byron?" Holmes gave him a shrug and straightened his coat, trying to remain nonchalant about it.

It was then that the priest came out onto the altar and announced the ceremony was about to begin. Watson patted Holmes in the shoulder, to show his support but also to indicate that he should turn around now. First walked in Cleo, in her little white dress, with her lovely hair tied by a blue ribbon and a demure smile that seemed foreign in such a young creature. Holmes winked at her, though, and her smile suddenly became that of a truly joyful child.

He gulped, drawing his hands out of his pockets and entwining them behind his back, as Irene walked in.

Despite having thought that wearing a wedding gown could not make her look any more beautiful than she had always been to him, he had to accept there was something truly remarkable about the whole look: the vapory veil that covered lidded eyes and rose red lips, the exquisite figure clothed in white silk and lace, the long trail being carried by the two little page boys (Sherlock and John the second, with their matching clothes and all). He knew the symbolisms, the intent behind the whole ruse, a pure, innocent bride presenting herself to her future husband, and though he knew in this case it was indeed nothing but a ruse (Irene was certainly no blushing bride, after all), he never thought innocence suited her so magnificently.

Those intense feelings of youthful madness he thought he had gotten over suddenly sprang back to life. He vaguely acknowledged his hands to be shaking and his heart thumping wildly against his ribcage. It was completely irrational, that this moment should feel so relevant when the lack of it had never affected them before, and it was beyond all reason that he should feel so wretchedly nervous when he hadn't the slightest doubt their answers would be identical. And yet, it was no surprise that after their vows had been spoken and he'd kissed the bride, he felt the sweetest form of relief wash over him.

His only consolation for being so far gone was to find in her glistening eyes the proof that she, too, loved him beyond all reasonable thought.

* * *

And so, this story is finally complete. I must admit to feeling rather sentimental because this has been my baby for so long... **thank you so very much to every one who reviewed, everyone who favorited or followed this fic, I have received such an overwhelming amount of support from all of you, it brings tears to my eyes just to think about it, you have endured my rants, my tardiness in updating, my writing in development** (which i like to think has improved throughout the story),** in general I've not been the best of authors but _you_ have been the best of readers, and I am eternally grateful to you all for coming with me on this amazing ride.**

Also, if you'll allow me to indulge in a moment of self-promotion, which is something I hate doing but feel the need to since the RDJ Holmes fandom seems to be hibernating in comparison to BBC's Sherlock (which I love madly and also would like to write for someday), I am not done with this Sherlock Holmes universe yet. While there won't be a sequel to this story, I do have another two new fics in the works.

The one most likely to be published first is a little Three-shot story in which Irene and Watson form an unexpected friendship behind Holmes' back, written mostly because I keep thinking they would be the best of friends and there's not much material on their relationship.

The second one, I fear is a more ambitious project, which started as a little sequel to AGOS but evolved into a weird mix of prequel/re-telling/sequel of the two movies. I'm thinking it might wind up to be as long as Glowingly, though hopefully it won't take me as long to finish it.

So to wrap it up, if you enjoyed Glowingly, I would really love to see you guys around for these two new adventures I'm about to set on. Thank you again for all your amazing support, I am truly indebted with you.


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